I'll Meet You on the Other Side
by enitharmonwept
Summary: The alt!Doctor meets the alt!Martha Jones and copes with the realities of aging. They have adventures.
1. Chapter 1: What's Past is Prologue

What's past is prologue

He alone survived,

Cast away on Kalypso's isle, Ogygia.

He told, then, how that nymph detained him there

In her smooth caves, craving him for her husband,

And how in her devoted lust she swore

He should not die nor grow old, all his days,

But he held out against her.

(23.331-37)

He'd known from that moment on the beach, when the TARDIS disappeared and the wind blew and she ran from him and he took her hand--he'd known. He saw it in her eyes, the comprehension that comes when you finally get what you wanted and then learn what you want. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he'd always known that it was the scent of time that seduced them.

But she'd tried, oh how she'd tried. They'd returned to her home and she'd set him up with a job, a fake identity, half her bed. For 2 months they worked at it, always **working**, while he watched her wrestle with her growing awareness of time's, not his, hold on her. He fought it too; the novelty of human life wore off quickly, and he longed for the stars and the adventure. As open as the sky had seemed on that day on that beach, as boundless as the sea appeared, gravity was his unseen prison. He could still feel it, the earth's turn, but now it was accompanied by the tether of gravity. Gravity and her. Him and gravity.

It hurt to hurt with no hope or plan of escape, and his hurting while watching her hurting was almost a bit too much humanity for him to cope with so soon.

They were outside, watching the stars, laughing about past adventures (always the past ones) when he told her that it was OK, that she didn't have to, that he understood, that he knew. She was silent for a while, then less so as she cried for what she'd had and lost, and let go the ungiven, unspoken promise she felt that she owed HIM. After so much time, so much work, so much struggle; it was cruel, and he silently cursed at the Doctor for making this happen, for leaving him here to pick up the pieces after yet another life was wrecked.

###

And that was how it always had been, hadn't it? He could see that now, walking this walk, and he understood more distinctly and clearly each day how his former travels had played out after he was gone. Her pain had been the beginning, the key to unlocking a millennium's storehouse of delayed guilt, empathy, and grief. After she left--gone traveling, the nearest she could get to him--he'd gotten a mate from Torchwood to help him arrange new lodging. Another had helped him furnish the flat he'd chosen and taught him how to live in it--to pay the bills, keep the fridge stocked, not burn down the place. And when that was done, when he was alone, the storehouse walls finally came down around him in the cool, quiet still of an evening.

###

Her mother came round a week after. Torchwood hadn't seen him and her husband asked her to check on him. She knew him before, and if her daughter wasn't available, she was the closest thing he had to an old trusted friend. She hadn't asked her girl why—she knew not long after he did, mothers know these things—and she hadn't held a grudge.

When she saw him there, curled up on the bed, surrounded by half-drunk cups of tea, crumbled bits of biscuits, his clothes smelling of bed and sweat and tears, grief etched into his face, he looked more familiar to her than he had in months. It was as though they'd crossed universes and switched places, the old and the new. When he looked up at her, she could see him working out how he knew her, his consciousness swimming through the sea of memories to cling to something safe. And then he remembered the look on her face, the sound in her voice every time he brought back the daughter she loved and feared she'd never see again. When she touched him, he broke and whispered his sorrow while she held him tight.

"I know, I know. There's nothing for it now. You've got to let it go," she soothed to him while she rocked him on the bed. He thought of all the mothers he'd seen and met and some he'd even loved and was glad that she was willing to play the part for him now when he had no one.

###

One year passed and he was ready to step out on his own. All the things he'd valued before, the sacrifices made in his name, had been catalogued and recorded in a book, the names of the dead and the living in that other place written so that he could remember and reflect, but not live with it in his increasingly crowded mind.

He rejected the old names first. The Doctor, John Smith. Not him, not anymore. Something from his human half wouldn't let him keep them, that fierce and guarded independence feeling suffocated by the meanings packed and stuffed inside those names. This, of course, made it difficult to move forward; a baby grows up with a name, has to take what it gets, can change it, but is essentially and eternally, defined by someone else's choice for them. His birth name, his given name belonged in that other world and there it would stay. He chose a new one and as a christening gift, had it tattooed on his inner left thigh. He smiled a bit as he thought about what River would have said about the mark.

"Not in my lifetime, that one," he thought and sighed. Another thing to add to the list of things he wouldn't live to see but already had.

Of course, there was still the matter of the calling card, the name to meet the faces that you meet, and he was a bit surprised when he found himself uttering the words in response to Ianto's question.

"You want a Jingleheimer in there too?" Ianto smirked, surprised that all of the agonizing of the last 2 weeks had only brought him to this almost foregone conclusion.

"Wha—oi, watch it Tea Boy!," he cracked and then he sighed as he felt the inevitable earwig invading his brain. "Yes, I guess his name is my name too. Well, his first and middle. But that Jingleheimer business is a bit cartoonish, don't you think?"

Ianto was surprised that he'd actually taken the suggestion seriously, but his expression revealed nothing. He nodded, made a few adjustments in several national registry entries, and within 20 minutes John Jacob Smith was in full possession of a legitimate public identity. In the end, that skin was just too comfortable to shed, and he promised to be less rubbish as a human than that other human John Smith had been.

He abandoned Torchwood; it had never really felt right, too confining and too reminiscent of his grounded life back there and then. He didn't need to increase the strength of the tether and he didn't want to be there if, when, she decided it was time to land. Instead he decided to play to one of his strengths—his willingness to wholeheartedly commit to solving problems—and became a man who investigated things, any things that walked in off the street.

One of those things led him to Martha Jones.


	2. Chapter 2: Jones and Smith and Jones

there may be no golden fleece but human riches I'll release

XTC—"Jason and the Argonauts"

"Simon, is it ready yet? 90 minutes, this thing blows, and all the evidence is lost! You do want to get paid, don't you?" John resisted the urge to take over the task he'd given his assistant; the boy had to learn to do things right, to work under pressure. Instead, he walked over to the computer to check his readings again. He wanted to be absolutely sure that they were going to the precise spot of the anomaly. The last time he'd made a mistake he'd spent 3 months picking up litter in the parks as punishment for upsetting a group of children by digging up the park sandbox with them still in it. He'd finally found the Ring of Astrolophareous in one of his cleaning sessions, and it was in a different part of the park entirely.

He never felt right about these odd jobs for Torchwood, even when Ianto asked very nicely and offered him enough money to keep himself housed and fed, and Simon paid for another month or two. The only saving grace was the time that money bought him; a nice payoff meant he could stop taking in jobs and focus on his own pursuits until the money started running low again. He thought about the ring and how easy it would have been to slip it on that day, to see where it would have taken him—someplace new, somewhen unexplored. But by that point there was Simon, who'd proven to be enough of a tether to keep him around a bit longer. Good thing, too; the Astrolopharean princess had been upset enough about her missing engagement ring to increase the length of the Grand Canyon. The earth wouldn't have stood a chance if he'd made off with it. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and paced around the room, thinking, thinking, thinking—

He stopped when he heard a loud crash. Bloody hell—couldn't the boy build a simple containment chamber by now? They'd been doing this for at least a year now; this wasn't the first time they'd had to find something that had fallen through the Rift so that Ianto could lock it away. At times he felt that he should destroy the artifacts, but a small part of him liked that they were there, hidden away in Torchwood's archives, like the attic he'd had on the TARDIS. He took in a deep breath and went into the other room to check on Simon's lack of progress.

His eyes were greeted by a familiar sight; dust and smoke filled the room, his apprentice was on the floor, and bits and pieces of the box were strewn about. He surveyed the damage and looked knowingly at Simon. The young man sighed and adjusted his glasses as he stood up and dusted himself off.

"I know, I know. Talcum powder before the acid, not after." Simon began cleaning up the mess. John chuckled as he left the room.

He got his kit together—he missed his TARDIS-enhanced pockets—as he mused on what to put in the backpack. He really had no idea what they were seeking; Ianto hadn't given him much more to go on than the energy readings, the time the object was supposed to explode, and some vague warning to be careful not to lose his head. Finding the location had been easy, really, and he wondered why Ianto had even bothered asking him to do it when he had plenty of agents at his disposal to take care of it for him. Of course, he really had no idea what he was after and it did need to be contained before it blew up, and he was pretty good at thinking on his feet…

Ego momentarily satisfied, he went back in to check on Simon's progress. He smiled at the young man working at the bench. Simon was smart, no doubt about it, a real wizard at putting things together. The difficulty was that beneath that sandy hair and those hazel eyes was a bit of a sequencing problem; sometimes he'd have trouble remembering the order of things and on days like this, when they were in a hurry, he'd forget to check his meticulous notebooks to ensure that he'd got things right. John saw the now-open notebook as the young man put the finishing touches on the device and reminded himself (for the umpteenth time) to make sure that he put up a big reminder for Simon on the wall to avoid future mishaps. Simon's bungled sequencing, John's overtaxed memory—ah, the curses of a Rift-addled human brain and a Time Lord's overstuffed one.

Equipment gathered and secured, the pair followed the energy readings to a small flat in a building that was eerily familiar to John. "The last time I saw this place," he mused, and he remembered when and why he'd been here before. He swallowed hard and stopped short. Simon ran into him. John still didn't move. "Sir? The time? We've got half an hour before this thing goes boom."

John shook himself out of his reverie and turned to face his assistant. "What? Oh, yes, the thing. 30 minutes. Well, best get to it, then. Don't need to see this place blow twice in my lifetime, do I?" Simon followed him, a puzzled look on his face.

John wondered what surprises were in store for him in the building. Was she, somehow involved? Would she be home? What was her life like in this world, who was she, where, when, would she have been his friend? The questions came rushing at him and through him and past him as he used his sonic screwdriver to enter one locked door and then another, and another until they were inside the flat they sought. It wasn't hers; he'd only entered it from the street that one time, and he clearly remembered the walk up to the top of the building.

"Right, 30 minutes. She probably doesn't even live here."

"Actually, that's 20 minutes now, sir," said Simon. Odd how he couldn't remember the order of simple instructions but could so accurately mark the passage of time—without a watch. John knew he'd need to peer into his head sometime to see what made him tick.

"OK, look about but don't touch anything, remember? We don't know what it looks like or what it does, well, apart from making you lose your head. What was Ianto on about with that anyway?" John scanned the room with the screwdriver and he followed the energy signal into a small room off the main entry. "Get the box ready, Simon. No time to waste." The young man followed him into the room.

The signal got stronger as he approached the center of the room, which stunk of sweat and beer and young, randy pheromones. On the floor was a pile of dirty clothes. He sighed. Was this item in the hands of an alien or a teenager? "Same thing, I suppose," he muttered. He looked around the room and saw the posters for rock bands on the walls, video game system, and a messy, half-made bed. The energy signal was strongest near the pile of laundry so he turned his attention to it. What was he looking for? He had to be careful; he didn't know how this thing worked or what it could do and this body was all he had. The pile of clothing, while smelly, looked innocent enough.

"10 minutes" whispered Simon. He held a clear box and a pair of tongs. "Have you got any idea what we're looking for?"

"Not a clue, not a clue, except for that business about—" Simon could see the light bulb go on in his boss's eyes.

"Yes!" John exclaimed, and, to Simon's horror, he dove into the pile and began rummaging through the clothes. He tossed them about, shirts, pants, undergarments, socks, until he got to the very bottom of the pile. The last item left in the center of the floor, hidden in the one place anyone with a nose wouldn't dare look, was a black felt bowler. John held out his hand to Simon and took the box and the tongs; he lifted the lid on the box, and used the tongs to pick the hat up and put it inside. He sealed the box with the screwdriver and looked at the hat for a moment. "Hmm. Looks innocuous enough—black felt hat, might fancy one of these myself. But—oh, what's this?" he whispered as he looked at the inside of the hat. Inside the hat brim was a silver metal strip with four small blue lights placed around it. "What do you make of it? Simon?"

"I almost thought you were going to touch it," Simon said, and John could see that his assistant had been fearful of his safety as he'd sifted through the clothes.

"Oh, sorry. Should've said something, only it came to me so fast. What a stupid thing for Ianto to say—Don't lose your head—but I guess he didn't really know what we were looking for either, just what it might do." He looked thoughtfully at Simon and remembered his own mortality. "Should probably be more careful in the future, shouldn't I?"

Simon nodded at him, just as he always did when these things happened. He'd been with Mr. Smith for 14 months, 8 days, 7 hours and 14 minutes. They'd had some version of this conversation so many times over that it was almost a comfortable habit, but every time John Smith rushed into something without thinking, with no regard for his safety, Simon wondered if this time would be the last one.

They heard a click at the door and then footsteps. John and Simon looked at each other and grinned. Another comfortable, if dangerous, habit; this was the fun part.

John used the screwdriver to lock the bedroom door while Simon opened the window and dropped to the ground. As John followed him down into the shrubbery, he smiled as he felt the adrenaline rush. Sure, Simon was great at putting things together, even when he got things in the wrong order, but he was even better at running.

###

Bowler secured in the office safe, John and Simon parted company for the day. They'd managed to elude their pursuer—a tall figure in a dark hooded sweatshirt, humanoid in shape, possibly even human—and they'd used a circuitous route to return to the office. A very long run, followed by a very long walk, with a stop for chips along the way. He'd have to talk to Ianto tomorrow about that hat; a quick scan with the sonic told him that it wasn't going to explode and that it was meant to hide something. In addition to the outright lies, Ianto's silence on this job troubled him. Most of his Torchwood projects were dangerous, but John knew enough about his old universe to generally piece together what was happening in his new one, and Ianto always gave him some context in which to operate. Ianto's silence, his own lack of knowledge, finding himself at Martha's building, and something about that metal strip on the hat gave him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Don't be ridiculous," he muttered. "It's a hat with a crude damper device attached to it. Nothing to get excited about."

He unpacked his backpack and put away the tools. No messages, no new cases. While he sighed—he needed something, anything, to do—he was a little glad of it. This business with the hat could end up taking up some more of his time, and if it didn't, he'd have enough money to let him work on some of the side projects he and Simon had been cooking up. As he started taking things out for tea, he felt the effects of the run, a twinge in his back and the stiffness of his thighs. "Shower," he grumbled, "then tea."

A few minutes later he was standing under a hot stream of water, musing on his aging body—he was still getting used to it, the idea that he would die, that his body was already, inexorably, breaking down, decaying, and that there would be nothing, that in less than one second he would blink out of existence. Three years gone and what did he have to show for it? By human standards, not much. His business, if he could call it that, wasn't exactly a smashing success. Simon was good to have around, but John was the master to Simon's apprentice, and his attempts at making friendships had been disasters. His erratic temper—wild enthusiasm for the strangest things, intensely burning anger at injustices—coupled with his endless nervous talking acted as an effective friendship firewall. Nope, nothing to show for it, nothing at all.

It was a bare life, and while in the TARDIS that had been enough (would Simon have made a good travelling companion, he wondered?), standing still on earth was something he didn't want to—shouldn't have to—do alone.

It wasn't until he'd been faced with so many ordinary humans that he realized how extraordinary his former companions had been. But as much as he wanted to know about them in this world, he avoided them. His only contact with Torchwood was through Ianto, he stayed away from Ealing and Chiswick, and he never, ever set foot in the Royal Hope Hospital. He knew that people could be different in this universe, and he knew that he didn't want to be disappointed that the new ones wouldn't live up to his memory of the old. Jackie and Pete had managed, somehow, because they were each what the other had always hoped they would be. He believed theirs was the rare happy ending.

He stepped out of the shower, dried off, dressed, and made the tea, for one, as usual. Being so close to just the idea of Martha made his usual dull loneliness sharper.

He supposed it was inevitable; at some point he'd have to come into contact with someone. He had stayed in London, after all. He'd never worried about coming across Rose. The way they'd left things it seemed impossible that she'd ever seek him out again. But the others, the ones still alive in this time, well, they could be around any corner, couldn't they? And, the little honest voice inside him whispered, hadn't he been hoping that they were?

The flat was too quiet; perhaps a walk? He grabbed a light jacket, put on his trainers, and stepped outside. Maybe the street, the city, would provide enough cover, would surprise him with a contact that could stick or with something to think about other than her and them and the loneliness. Even being alone in the TARDIS had never really meant being alone, not like this, and as he stepped out on to the city street, as he felt the night pulse around him and the people rushing past, he kept pace with the movement, hurrying, almost running in an effort to be part of their rush, to flow with the only vortex he could access now, to be lost in the roaring stream.

It was no good, though. Even in this crush of people, he had nothing to hide behind now, nothing, not even his name. Being so close to her today reminded him that she was the reason he'd almost left John Smith behind; her John Smith lurked beneath his exterior, a dark marker of that one time he was truly, undeniably human. There was this moment with Donna when he'd been able to do what the Doctor had not; he'd seen, with remarkable clarity, exactly what Donna believed about herself, and he'd been able to reflect that for her, to speak what she couldn't and wouldn't say about her fears. He'd turned that unflinching honesty upon himself quite a few times in the past few years, and he hadn't always liked what he saw, particularly when it came to Martha and her John Smith.

He slowed his pace as he played back that time. The memories of Joan were like dear pieces of paper, singed on the edges by the fire of his transformation and the knowledge of how badly he'd hurt her. The memories of Martha shamed him. They'd both abandoned her, John Smith and the Doctor. She'd never stood a chance, not because of who she was, but because of who she wasn't. It was as if they'd each been looking at a negative image, defining her by erasing her, by making her less than she was because of what and who she wasn't. Neither of them saw her until they were absolutely forced to, and even then, even after she'd risked an abandonment she should never have had to consider, it was Joan—not John, not the Doctor—who'd proven her salvation.

After, when they were trapped in 1969, he could finally see her, but something had hardened in her during that time, had stiffened. On the outside she seemed the same, but she hid her light so far within that he'd expected her to leave him as soon as they got back to her time. Instead, she went with him to the end of the universe and found the Master. She'd seen her flat blown up, her family arrested, him tortured and aged, and what had she done? She had trusted him so completely that in the face of death and destruction and torture--in the face of certain annihilation--she had walked the earth and told a story, told it so convincingly, so truthfully, so sincerely that she gave the world hope and inspiration. And how had he repaid her, how must it have looked to her as he cried over the body of the architect of so much destruction? He was glad to see her go; he couldn't bear to look at her now that he could see her, see her more clearly than he'd seen anyone, because he knew that he could never make up for what had happened when he wasn't looking. But that hadn't been the end, had it, no, that was really just the beginning. Once he saw her, the Doctor had begun to see himself anew and the end result, well, for John anyway, was this exile.

The name hadn't just been too much of a familiar skin; it had been a punishment, a hair shirt and penance, a reminder that to be human meant to really see. He stopped and closed his eyes, calling her to mind. She was so tiny, but so strong. The more he thought about that journey she'd taken, how one small body could have done so much, the weaker and frailer his body felt.

He fell to the ground with a thump.

"Oi, mate, you ok?"

A hand reached down to help him up. He looked up to see what had knocked him over and found himself looking into a familiar pair of eyes. The other hand held a familiar mobile phone. The body was wearing a familiar red leather jacket, and the eyes were so full of concern and life that he couldn't speak. The universe felt very small and he struggled to breathe.

"Look Mum, I'll call you back in a minute," she said, hanging up the phone. "Are you alright?" she asked again. She took his left hand in hers, then his right, inspecting the scrapes from the collision of his hands against the hard cement. "You'll want to clean these cuts and dress them," she said, "but otherwise, you look ok."

He grinned at her, "So you're a doctor then? Brilliant!" The air between them hummed with his excitement. She was here, standing here, and she was the same—a little older, to be expected—but the same, the very same.

Her eyes appraised him as she slowly replied "Yes, I am a doctor, although I think anyone would have said what I just did."

"But no, they wouldn't, don't you see? The first thing, the very first thing that you did, well, apart from getting off the phone with your mum who must really be on a tear to distract and agitate you so much that you literally ran me down—me, the immovable object, standing stock still in the street—no, your very first instinct was to check me out for damage and to make a diagnosis." He paused and took a breath and she wondered how he'd managed that long without one. "That's why you're a doctor and that's just brilliant!"

She looked up into his eyes. In them she saw so much—joy? sorrow? loneliness?—it was difficult to sort it all out. Whatever was there, she felt a deep sense of trust, that she could trust him with anything. She didn't take that feeling lightly; her work had taught her to trust her instincts about people and they hadn't failed her yet. But how on earth could he know about her relationship with her mother?

She extended her hand. "I'm Martha Jones."

He took her hand, so familiar and new, and shook it gently. brbr"Nice to meet you Doctor Jones. I'm John Smith." It felt strange to say it to her, and he wanted to add "and I'm much less rubbish this time," but stopped himself. When was the last time he'd spoken to someone about something other than work?

"Would you like to get that cleaned up?" she asked, indicating the cuts on his hands. "I've got a flat in this building; I could run up and get some bandages."

He looked up and realized that he'd wandered himself back to her home. For a moment he'd thought that fate had led her to him; now he saw that he'd been moving toward her all along. He looked back at her and nodded. She went into the building and he busied himself looking at his trainers and the concrete.

"Just this one encounter," he lied to himself, "just this once." He smiled at the thought of her jacket—that very same jacket—existing in both spaces and her wearing it in both places, and the same smell of her and her eyes, and how in this other world she was still so much Martha Jones.

"But she's not the same and you can't pretend that she is. Just this once."

She came out of the building and wiped his palms with an antiseptic wipe, then applied the bandages. "There, all better now. I'm sorry I knocked you down. I really need to pay better attention to where I'm going." She smiled up at him.

He looked at her with laughing eyes and ran his bandaged hand through his hair. "Well, I wasn't exactly avoiding it, what with me standing here like a stone."

"About that—why were you standing here, anyway? Are you lost or looking for someone?"

"Nope, not lost and not looking for anyone in particular. Just out for a walk and a think and I guess I got lost in the latter. Sorry I got in your way. Sometimes I can't see what's right in front of me," he said and in his eyes now all she saw was loneliness. "I guess I'll be going then."

As he held out a hand to her, her mobile rang. "Mum" she whispered, clearly exasperated. Something in his eyes told her to keep him there. "Could you wait for just a moment? I promise I won't be long." She turned away from him and answered the phone. He tried not to listen, but couldn't help but hear the words "not a tramp," and "Leo's a grown man" and "you have to cut the strings, Mum, or you'll strangle him" before she hung up the phone and turned to back to face him. "Sorry about that. You know, families…" She smiled a bit and then continued. "I'm sure you know what that's like."

He scratched his head. "Actually, I'm sort of on my own at the moment. Well, not entirely—there is Simon—but he doesn't really count I suppose, although I can usually rely on him for Sunday dinners. But mostly it's just me, on my own, a complete unknown, like a roll—" He stopped when he saw the laughter threatening to burst from her face.

"Can you actually answer a question succinctly?" she asked.

"Yes. I. Can." he quipped. "Though I always seem to take it too far. Gets me into trouble sometimes" he said thoughtfully.

"Sounds like you need someone to tell you when to stop, then," she said.

"Perhaps I do, Doctor Jones."

Their eyes locked and they considered each other for that span of time that feels like eternity and promises even more. His mind was racing and he was trying to remember exactly why he'd made that rule about not contacting them, when he'd forgotten how lonely his life was, and how he was going to force himself away from her before he did something he'd regret later. It wasn't just the loneliness; it was her and he was here because something in him wanted to be here, with her, in this moment, in this time. He missed having a friend, and she'd always been a good friend to him, even when he didn't treat her like one.

Her mind was racing and she was trying to remember exactly why she'd sworn off strangely searching eyes, when she'd forgotten how lonely her life was, and how she was going to force herself away from him before she did something she'd regret later. It wasn't just the loneliness; ihe/i was coming and she knew she was supposed to be meeting him soon and something in her wanted to have a backup, now, just this once. She missed having a friend she could trust and he looked like he might be a good friend to her, at least for this one night.

Her voice broke the silence and made the decision for them. "Would you like to go for a drink? There's a pub round the corner; I'm meeting someone there later, but we could talk for a bit? Something tells me you'd be good to know." She raised an eyebrow as she waited for his answer.

Forward—had his Martha been like this too or was this one of many differences? He wanted to find out.

"I'd like that. I'd like that very much Doctor Jones."

"Please call me Martha. 'Doctor Jones' makes me feel like I should be running from snakes or large rolling stones." She winked at him and smiled. "Just give me a minute to run upstairs and change. I've been in these clothes all day."

She disappeared into the building and as he stood outside he realized that being at her flat meant that he was also at the hat owner's flat and that was very bad. How could he have been so stupid? He dove into the shrubbery that had been so obliging earlier and slowly peered up into the apartment he'd been in earlier that day. No sign of life inside, good, no lights on or anything. He scanned up and down the street—nothing. No one coming or going. A bit odd, since it was early in the evening and the streets had all been so full of life, but really, folks were probably having their suppers or a pint at the pub; this wasn't a street in the heart of the city. He considered going, but thought better of it. What if Martha was in danger?

"If you needed the loo you could have just asked," he heard her say and he sheepishly extricated himself from the bushes.

"I, um, thought I saw something in the shrub, something shiny. Thought it might be important, but it was nothing, just a bit of trash." He thought he saw suspicion in her eyes, but the look was gone so quickly that he brushed the thought of it away.

"Shall we?" she asked, indicating the direction of the pub.

He offered her his arm, as he'd done so many times before, and felt the familiar weight of her on his body as they walked down the street.


	3. Chapter 3: Travels in Time

_One hour ago_

The early evening air felt cool on her skin and even though it was autumn, she smelled the scent of summer holidays as she walked home. Three months and they were all hers to do with as she wished. She'd already made an appointment for a day at the spa and was looking forward to spending it with Tish, catching up on her sister's life and washing away the troubles of her own. She loved her work, most days, but the last 2 years had been particularly rough. When she'd signed on with UNIT, she'd been excited about continuing her research in an environment that would support her, no matter how mad the ideas seemed, and she hadn't been disappointed on that score. They were happy to give her whatever she needed and to acquiesce to her ethical demands; they wanted this project to work as much as she did, and for many of the same reasons. Now that her part was done, that the trials had been successful, she'd earned a break, and while she'd been reluctant at first to take one, as the day loomed nearer she'd felt more and more in need of it.

No, it wasn't her work, although that was exhausting. It was the extras, those unexpected encounters, the near-brushes with danger that always accompanied his visits. At first it was exciting—mad dashes through alleyways, running from alien dangers, leaping about in time trying to set things right again—but as time had passed it had just become too much, too hard, too draining and, while exhilarating, ultimately unfulfilling. He was dashing and charming and completely captivating, but Martha had always had her feet planted on terra firma and being around him for too long was like running in quicksand. She hoped that being away from UNIT for a while, away from this particular alien ground zero, would mean she could be away from him, too.

Her mobile rang and she answered it without looking. Mum was on a tear about Leo's new girlfriend, and while Martha didn't particularly like the girl, her brother was a big boy and could certainly handle himself. She sighed her greeting into the phone.

"Martha Jones, voice of a nightingale. How can I entice you to sing for me tonight?"

Her stomach fell at the sound of his voice and she chuckled ruefully as she answered. "Sure, why not? Don't really have anything planned for the next three months anyway. How many ways can you try to get me killed in the next—"she calculated quickly—"2,160 hours?"

"Now Doctor Jones, I can think of about 2,160 more interesting ways of spending that time, and while many of them might end in ila petite mort/i, I promise you'll feel more alive than you ever have when I'm done with you."

She hoped he could hear her eyes rolling. "I have a hard time believing you'd tie yourself down to one woman, one species, for that long. And besides," she continued, "I know that saving me from eminent destruction is what really turns you on. Intercourse would seem almost commonplace in the face of that fact."

"Well, now that you mention it—" His voice became serious and Martha knew that her spa appointment would have to be rescheduled. "I need to see you tonight. There's something strange going on."

"Where and when?" she sighed.

"The usual place, in 2 hours. I'm here already and have to check out a few things first. It may be nothing, but better safe than sorry. See you later?"

"Yeah, I'll be there. You get 30 minutes, that's it, understand? I need this break Jack; you're going to have to handle this one on your own." She hung up the phone and sighed. She knew that she was really just saying this for herself; Jack never took no for answer.

The phone rang again.

"Jack, I said I'd meet you" she said, clearly annoyed that he was bothering her.

"Martha? What are you talking about? And why haven't you returned my calls? And who" she could hear her mother's voice rising over the phone line, "is Jack?"

She covered her eyes with her free hand as she tried to work out a way out of the conversation. "Mum, it's nothing, really, noth—"She stopped speaking as she collided with a tall unmoving object.

She looked down. Red trainers. Dark jeans. Fitted jacket. Thin as a rail. Gorgeous eyes. Thick hair.

"Oi mate, you OK?" She extended her hand to help him up.

###

_Five Minutes Ago_

She ran inside, feeling a bit guilty about what she'd just done. How could she do that, invite a civilian along when she was going to be meeting Jack, who was certain to hit on him and try to get him killed in the space of one evening? Maybe she could send him away before Jack arrived; there was more than an hour to go before they were going to meet. And since when did she start asking complete strangers out for drinks? "Those eyes," she muttered, "those eyes are hypnotic."Maybe it was the influence of Jack's recklessness, or the promise of a long rest—whatever it was, she was hoping to get to know a little more about Mr. Smith. "Bit of a generic name, though."

She walked up the stairs to her flat, opened the door, and went in to change her top. Nothing too sexy—didn't want to give Jack any ideas—but nothing too matronly—didn't want John Smith to have none. After she put her hair up, she checked her email quickly, out of habit more than anything. There was a low-level security alert from UNIT; someone had broken into the flat of a test subject. The location of the robbery caught her attention first. Her building? She knew little about the subjects in her study, but this seemed a bit too difficult to believe. She held her breath when she read the description of one of the suspects. Brown hair. Tall, lanky, thin as a rail. Red trainers.

Couldn't be, could it? She thought about how genuinely surprised he'd seemed at the sight of her, at his location, at just being. The man she'd just met didn't strike her as a robber. Still, she thought, better safe than dead.

She packed her UNIT-issued firearm into her handbag and headed down the stairs. Perhaps it was a good thing that she was meeting up with Jack after all.

###

_One hour later_

Jack Harkness walked into the pub at precisely the moment he was supposed to. He scanned the room and spotted Martha sitting in a tall booth with her back to the door. Not her normal posture; Martha liked to see what was coming. He smirked; perhaps she wanted to be surprised today?

As he got closer, he noticed that she wasn't alone. A man he'd never seen before was sitting with her and they were engrossed in conversation. Jack ordered a drink and positioned himself so that he could watch a bit. While he wanted to let Martha know what he'd found out, he felt confident that he'd contained the problem for the moment and he was intrigued by this new development. Besides, he didn't often get a chance to gaze at her uninterrupted, and if she'd never give him the pleasure up close, he'd take it any way he could.

The man was handsome, but a bit on the skinny side. He appeared to be upset about something and a deep sorrow hung from him; to Jack, he looked like a man who'd just fought a war (maybe won, maybe lost) and was suddenly faced with nothing to do. He ordered a fresh drink and then returned his attention to the booth. They were holding hands now; Martha spoke and the man looked as though he was going to faint.

Perhaps now would be a good time to step in.

###

_Now_

As soon as they arrived at the pub, Martha ordered a couple of pints and steered them into a booth. John was intrigued by how she just took charge. He remembered her on the moon, how smart and quick and capable she'd been; yes, she was in many ways the same. Still, there was an uneasiness he could sense in her, too, and he wondered if the same sandpaper quality would characterize a relationship here. He hoped not; he wanted a friend, and while he'd tried to make new friends in this new world, he'd never been able to really connect with someone in the normal course of life. Was that it—did his former life make it easier?

Martha was thinking about first impressions and wondering whether she'd made a mistake or not in inviting him for a drink. Sure, he was attractive, but this business about the break-in made her question her judgment. The manner of their meeting was suspect; what was he doing standing on the street? If he'd broken in earlier that day, why was he back? Didn't he worry that the flat would be watched? Now that she thought of it, why wasn't it being watched?

Of course, all of this very deep and perplexing thinking was taking place beneath the usual chit chat about the weather and football and the rising cost of zeppelin tickets, a conversation which netted neither of them what they wished to gain. After an awkward silence when they'd run out of idle conversation and had consumed half of their drinks, Martha finally asked a pertinent question.

"So, what do you do for a living then? You know quite a bit about me—my mum and family, my profession, where I live, even—but the only thing I know about you is that you wear red trainers, tend to stand still on pavements, have a fondness for hiding out in shrubbery and talking a lot about nothing."

He opened his mouth to object , then thought better of it. "Well, I investigate things," he said. "Not quite like a private detective, although I do work for all sorts of clients, but more like a scientific investigator—I make things, I find things, I sort things out that need, well, sorting I suppose." He could see that his answer was not satisfactory; he knew that look he was getting from her. It was a shade off the look that had gotten him to divulge so much about Gallifrey and the Time War on that other earth in that other universe so much time and space away. He much preferred the look of wonder and joy in her eyes when he took her someplace new. He screwed up his face, trying to find a way to clarify that would not reveal the real nature of his work; he wanted to be honest because she was Martha Jones, but since she really wasn't that Martha Jones he couldn't quite open up.

"It's complicated" he finished and looked at her face, futilely hoping that she'd let it go.

But she was Martha Jones and letting go wasn't part of her conversational repertoire. "What do you mean, 'it's complicated'? What sort of answer is that? What, do you work for some secret government agency or something?"

"Just that it's complicated. I'm a free agent, I work for different clients, and some of them are more private than others, some are more dangerous than others. Sometimes I don't even know what I'm looking for, much less why." He grumbled this last, thinking back to Ianto's deception. "I wonder why I even bother, wasting my time trying to save the world. Why me?"

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Save the world? Not pompous at all, then." She rolled her eyes as she leaned back.

He'd done it again, said the right thing that came out as the wrong thing; she didn't understand, like no one seemed to understand. If he could only just say what he meant; he was desperate to say what he meant. He'd already broken his promise to not seek them out; what more harm could he do by speaking? "Martha, I don't know how to do this, how to be this. I don't" he couldn't believe what he was about to say "do domestic very well."

"Come again?"

He sighed, unable to stop now that he'd started. "Relationships, people, connecting, really connecting. I don't do it, I can't really ever seem to do it and to do it properly. I see people on the street, happy, ordinary people leading their ordinary lives and I want to know what that's like but then I just can't seem to fit into it, to be like that. And one day"—the intensity in his voice was growing and Martha felt a storm swirling around them—"one day I'll be gone, they'll be gone, just like that and no one will remember or ever know." His voice trailed off into a whisper at this last realization. He looked down at the table, at his hands which were flexing, aching with the desire, the need, to touch something living, to make a connection to something outside of himself. He thought of the Dalek that Rose made part human. "I saw a creature once," he began, unsure of how to explain it and trusting that this Martha would be as open to the concept of alienness as the other one had been, even without the Judoon on the moon or the Plasmavore or two hearts as irrefutable evidence.

"A creature?" she asked, and he saw a familiar glimmer in her eyes, that evidence of the curiosity he was hoping burned below her cool surface.

"Yes, a creature, unique in all the world, the very last of its kind. Well, we thought it was the last of its kind, but that turned out to be not quite accurate, always mucking things up, and I'm doing it again, aren't I?" He'd noticed the way her eyebrows raised as he started veering off course. "Sorry. OK, so last of its kind and to live, it had to assimilate the code of another species, to become transformed, something new, but it couldn't cross the gulf to do that; it clung so strongly to what it was, what it had been, that it chose self-destruction over embracing what it could be." He looked at Martha and took a deep breath. "I don't want to be that creature."

Martha's chest got very tight and she felt the weight of the statement, and every single question and answer behind it. This man was not a man—of that she was certain—but something else entirely. She felt the conflict of her certainty that he was both involved in the break in and someone she could trust. If she was going to get to the bottom of this, she'd have to be someone he could trust too. She took his hand in hers.

"What are you fighting becoming?" she asked. "What are you afraid of?"

He looked down at the hand holding his. How quickly she'd acquiesced and accepted, there and here, how ready she'd been to take his life in her hands and put hers in his, how openly and honestly she had trusted in him. He'd already said too much, so much more than he'd ever said, ever wanted to say, and now he was standing on the point of it, of telling her the truth. He'd just met her (but not really, not really at all) and he was about to tell her what he couldn't and wouldn't tell Rose. How was it that Martha could get him to talk about things that he'd rather keep hidden?

To Martha he looked burdened and small and very, very lonely. When he finally spoke again, she had to strain to hear his whisper.

"I'm afraid of being known." As he spoke the words, he seemed sadder and lighter and his grip on her hand tightened slightly, as if he were trying to anchor her.

"And being known—what will that make you?" The weight of the question hung in the air between them.

"Human." There was silence at the table. He looked down at the hand that still held his and the words tumbled automatically from his lips. "Martha, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you've only just met me and—"

She cut him off. "Who, no, what are you?" He looked up to find her eyes burning away his flesh to get to the truth of him. "And why did you break into my building today?"

He blanched. She hadn't actually spoken that last question; he'd only heard it in his mind.

_Martha, you're in my head._

_And you're in mine.  
_

_How is that working, exactly?_

They stared at each other, then down at their clasped hands. On either side of the telepathic link many doors rapidly slammed shut.


	4. Chapter 4: Travels in Space

"Mind if I cut in?" Jack asked as he walked over. He sensed that something had passed between them, but was surprised when, upon releasing Martha's hand, the man looked at him, extended his own hand and greeted him a bit too enthusiastically. "Hello Jack! Fancy meeting you here!"

Jack took the hand warily. He was sure he hadn't met this man, but with time travel you could never be certain that things happened to you in order. "Sorry, we haven't met yet. You are?"

"Of course we haven't met yet! John Smith's my name. But it was easy enough, me being in Martha's mind a moment ago and all, to extract at least that little bit of information. But you," John maintained his grip on Jack's hand, "your mental barriers are much more developed than hers. You're out of your time, then?"

Martha was puzzled; her telepathic abilities were still developing, but she was certain that he hadn't got anything from her before she'd closed her mind. How did this man know Jack?

"C'mon, Doctor Jones!" John spat the words at her, all of the vulnerability of moments before lost. Martha's telepathy and Jack's appearance had thrown him; all the familiar walls were coming back up with a vengeance. _Idiot,_ he thought, _you stupid idiot. People here aren't the same!_ "Tell me, Martha, what's going on?"

"Why were you in my building today? Why did you break into that flat?" Martha spoke quietly, trying to focus on finding out what she needed to know before she revealed anything else. She was relieved, really, that Jack had arrived, because something significant was unfolding before her, and she feared that she might get swept away into something more dangerous than traveling with Jack had ever been. She felt her peaceful holiday falling away.

"I think I can answer part of that," Jack said, and he reached down into his satchel and pulled out the box with the bowler. He turned to Martha, "Is this what was taken?"

Martha looked confused. "I don't know. The alert didn't say what was taken, just that a test subject's flat had been the scene of a break-in. There were two blokes, one with blond hair and the other with—" She stopped and looked at John.

"Dark hair and red trainers?" John sighed. As soon as he'd seen the box, his stomach tied up in knots. What had Ianto gotten him into? Torchwood and Time Agents? Bloody UNIT would be turning up next. He looked up at Martha. Of course.

"Test subjects?" he asked her. "Alert of a break-in? Just what kind of doctor are you and who do you work for?"

"I'm Chief Medical Researcher for UNIT. And you? I suppose you work for Torchwood."

"Of course not!" John replied indignantly. "Haven't worked for them in years, well, not officially anyway. From time to time they send a case my way, low-level stuff, really, just various alien bric-a-brac that falls through the Rift. And you—" he pointed a finger at Jack. "What were you doing in my office and how did you get that box from my safe?"

"You seem to know so much about me, why don't you tell me that?" Jack replied. He'd met enough rogue Time Agents—was a rogue himself—to know that this man could easily be a dangerous one. His "safe" used locking technologies that wouldn't be around for at least another half millennia.

"Blaster, perhaps?" John smirked. "Don't panic; I'm not a Time Agent. Wouldn't use one of those bracelets if you paid me. Undignified mode of travel. Martha, you haven't been hopping around time with this one, have you?"

"Undignified? And exactly how are you travelling, then?" Jack checked his manipulator. "I'm not picking up any ships in the area. Jealous?"

"Jealous? Of you? Oh, the things I know, the things I've seen, the things I've done—you couldn't begin to comprehend what I know about—"

"Enough." Martha's voice was stern, but quiet. "Zip your pants and shut your mouths." She looked at Jack. "Did you find anything else in the flat? Can we trust him?" She was feeling unsure of John now, especially as his manner had so quickly turned cold.

Jack shook his head. "Seems to be a free agent. Appears to be a private detective, but doesn't seem to be doing very well."

"Alright," Martha began "I want to know more about this hat and you, and what you're wanting. Tell me. What does it do?" She pushed the box toward him.

"Give me a sec," John said, and he reached into his jacket pocket to pull out the sonic. It wasn't there. "Bugger," he muttered, "I've left it behind. We've got to go back to my flat."

"No," Jack said. "Too risky—Torchwood may be watching you and I don't want you escaping. I'm sure they've intercepted that little message from UNIT by now. What do you need?"

"Sonic screwdriver. With it I can do a better scan of the device in the hat, see what it does."

Jack looked amused."Screwdriver? You mock my Vortex Manipulator and you've got a sonic screwdriver? Who looks at a screwdriver and says—"

John cut him off. "Shut it Jack. If you want to know more about this hat, I need the screwdriver and the only way to get it is to go to my flat."

Martha looked at Jack. "Could you go?" she asked.

"Are you armed?" he asked and she nodded. "Good. Take him back to your place. I'll meet you there after I get it." He turned to John, who was looking at Martha as though she were something completely alien. "Where is it? I'm going to teleport to your place to get it."

John was still staring at Martha. "You have a gun?" he whispered. "Right now?"

"Of course I do," she said, and the conflict she'd felt previously rose again. He didn't look scared or angry or menacing; he looked wounded. She felt she needed to explain. "I may be a doctor, but I'm also a soldier. And when I read that email, I thought I should—"

"—be safe," he finished for her and sighed. Without knowing it, he'd done it to her again.

Martha felt uncomfortable. "Let's go, yeah? The sooner we get this sorted," she glared at Jack, "the sooner we can all get on with our lives. This is all a bit too cloak and dagger for me." She left the money for their drinks on the table and they walked out of the pub.

After John told him where to find the screwdriver, Jack disappeared into an obliging alley. John registered the faintest bit of light as Jack entered the Vortex and felt the residual pull of time. Martha seemed wistful, and he wondered just who she really was, and what she and Jack shared. "You have traveled in time with him, haven't you?" he asked, and she nodded. "Do you still?"

She shook her head. "Not anymore." She paused. "How do you know him? I know that you didn't get his name from me."

John's eyes were very far away. "No, you're right, I didn't." He looked up at the night sky. The stars were out, so many of them, and they looked so inviting and simple and utterly uncomplicated. He would have given anything for a way out. He looked at Martha, who was standing next to him—he'd stopped walking again—and her expression said she was waiting for an explanation. "I can't explain it to you now and I may not explain it to you ever." His tone grew stern. "I'm beginning to wish I'd never taken that job for Torchwood and that I'd stayed home instead of going out for a walk tonight. But the reality is that I did, we're here and he's here, and we've got to sort this mess out together. No matter what happens, Martha, I need you to know this—" His voice softened a bit and he gave her a small smile. "I'm so glad that I met you today, Martha Jones. Thank you for listening to me."

They walked in silence to her flat.

###

John entered first while Martha searched round for her keys. As she crossed the threshold, he felt a slight tick in the air and noticed a thin red line appear near the ground behind her. He put out his arm to stop her and whispered, "Martha, what's that?" He pointed at the line running between the door frames. She inhaled sharply, her eyes grew wide, and her face went grey.

"Bio bomb," she whispered. "At least, I think that's what it is. And if it is, that means that behind me—" They pivoted round slowly and noted the second red line now drawn across the door into the building interior.

"What's a bio bomb do, exactly?" asked John, although he had a pretty good idea. The device hadn't engaged until Martha crossed the threshold.

"Seeks out particular bio signatures—DNA and the like—and then—" she hesitated.

"Kaboom?"

"Yeah, Kaboom." Martha looked terrified and swallowed hard before she spoke. "This is a UNIT weapon."

"They made this and you work for them? Martha, what were you thinking? Carrying a gun, biological bombs—" He paused his rant when he saw the terror in Martha's eyes. "Right, rant later, save now. Think Martha—what else can you tell me about how it works? Where's the charge located?

"We're standing over it" she said softly, as though to speak any louder would trigger the charge.

"And how big of an explosion are we talking about?"

"Pretty big—the building."

"Can we call Jack? He could—"

"Not enough time. It's engaged. We've got 1, maybe 2 minutes before it triggers."

"And what happens if we hop over the beam?"

"You? Nothing. Me? Boom."

Wrong answer. What could he do—no sonic screwdriver, no biodamper rings, no buffer, no way to hide her. Unless—

He looked at the open door to the street. There were only a couple of steps between him and the pavement.

"Martha, can you trust me? I think I know how we can get out of this, but you're going to have to trust me." He held her arms and looked down into her eyes. "It's going to hurt. A lot. And" he took a deep breath, "I've got to give you some of my DNA. Even then, we still might die."

"But we might not, right? Are you sure?"

He put on his most cavalier face. "Couldn't be surer. Are you ready?"

Her eyes were full of fear and gratitude as she nodded her assent. He pulled her closer and kissed her.

_This is unexpected,_ she thought, _but nice._ She relaxed into the kiss, her arms pressed against his chest, his arms pulling her tightly toward him as he angled himself ever so slightly and jumped backwards through the open door and onto the sidewalk. They landed, and he quickly rolled to shield her as the bomb detonated.

Martha, in shock, lay there for a moment, then realized they were both on the walkway to the flat. The blast had propelled them toward the fence. She could feel John's weight atop her. Was he breathing?

"John? John?" she rolled him off of her and onto his back. He moaned and started to sit up, then winced.

"Martha? You alright? I think I've cracked a rib." He grimaced as he touched his right side; between the force of the fall and her arms pressed against his chest, he knew that his bones had taken a beating. "Or maybe two."

"I'm OK—scratched up a bit is all." She looked up at the burning building and choked back her tears. "We have to go. If UNIT wants me dead, we've got to hide." She stood and helped him to his feet.

"Where are we going?" John asked. People were beginning to gather on the street; he and Martha crouched down as they made their way from the burning building.

"Perfect hiding place. Jack will meet us there once he sees what's happened here." She took his hand and guided him into the darkness. "You can explain that 'DNA transfer' on the way."

###

When they stopped walking, John found himself facing Albion Hospital. It was surrounded by barbed wire and fencing, and from the looks of things, hadn't been occupied in decades.

"I met Jack here. I had just started my research for UNIT. They sent me here to do a routine visit, to see how the situation stood. I was so green and naïve." The bitterness in her voice made him fearful of what she'd experienced in this place. "I found him right there"—she pointed to a spot marked with a small memorial. "He was reading off a list of names and the way he was dressed and the night—I thought he was a ghost for a moment."

John had a feeling that he knew where this was going, but asked "what happened here?"

Martha looked down, as though she was to blame. "It's not something I like to dwell on. A lot of people died here a long time ago. When UNIT was formed, it was charged with overseeing this site. The only thing that made working here bearable was knowing the whole story and understanding Jack's part in it." She noted the expectant look in his eyes. "I'm sorry, though. You'll have to get the rest of it from him."

He nodded and was silent for a moment as he remembered meeting Jack so long ago. Clearly that scenario, some scenario, had played out here as well. He wondered what he would do if there were active nanogenes around, whether there was enough genetic material left in him for them to separate the human from the Time Lord, whether they were smart enough to make that work.

Martha had led him into a small room inside the hospital. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that this was an administrative office and that it hadn't been entirely left to the mercy of time. There was a comfortable, if ancient, couch in the office, with a set of blankets folded on one end. The desk had been dusted. There was a small bathroom attached to the office—a high-ranking administrator, then—and John could see that it too was in fairly good repair.

"He—we, hide out here sometimes when we need a place to land," she said, and he could sense a tension in her reminiscing. "The last time we were here," she swallowed hard and then continued, "I thought was going to be the very last time." She wiped a tear from her eyes, and then said "And it was, or was going to be, but not quite the way I thought." Martha sat on the desktop. She indicated the couch. "Have a seat."

John walked to the couch and sat, now facing her.

"So, explain it to me. Why did you take that hat today? What is it for?"

He leaned forward on the couch and rested his arms on his legs. "I was hired—under false pretenses, mind you—to secure that hat. I didn't even know what I was looking for, really, just that it was alien—" he noticed her raised eyebrow when he said this, "—and that it was going to explode in the very near future. I was, I'm ashamed to say, duped on both counts. The hat is wired with a bio damper, a pretty crude one at that, and is decidedly human in origin. It's meant to protect its wearer, not harm them."

"So why—"

He cut her off, some of his earlier sternness returning. "Oh, no. My turn for an answer now. Exactly what is the nature of your research at UNIT? What's this hat meant to hide?"

"You've already seen the results of my research. Not much more to say about it." She looked amused at his befuddled expression, then grinned as she saw the light of recognition appear in his eyes.

"Telepathy? You've figured out telepathy?" His eyes were beaming such delight and wonder at her that she felt prouder of her work than she'd been when her superiors had commended her earlier that week. "Martha Jones, has anyone told you lately that you're brilliant? Because you are, you really, really are! And so the hat? Is it meant to shield the telepath?"

"I don't know what you mean," Martha replied. "The hat, the damper, isn't part of my research protocol. I don't know what it does."

"But it comes from UNIT? And it's part of a research trial?" he asked intensely.

"Well, yes, from what that alert said. If it was stolen from the flat, then it was taken from a research subject. It must be a project I don't—" She thought for a moment, then began to shake her head. "No, no, I shut it down months ago! I destroyed them all. How did they, how could they use them?"

"Use what, Martha?"

Her shoulders sagged, and she looked defeated and weary. Her eyes were brimming with angry tears. "I just wanted something good to come of it. All that pain and suffering—all that death. It seemed wrong that all that death would result in nothing good or worthwhile."

He stood, walked over to her. "Martha, please trust me. What are they using? What did you destroy?"

"Lumic's microchips. If they're using them—" Her breath caught as the tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Those poor people."

John embraced her in a tight hug. After a moment, her tears stopped, and she separated herself from him. "Look at me," she sniffed as she wiped the tears from her face, "crying in the arms of perfect stranger. A burgling stranger, at that," she finished.

"A duped investigator," he corrected her. He took a tissue from the box on the desk and wiped her eyes gently. "And after the last 3 hours, I hardly think we're complete strangers anymore, do you?" Her tears dried, John tossed the tissue in the wastebasket and returned his hand to her face. He stroked her cheek with his right hand, and in her eyes he saw her working out what to do next. The intimacies they'd already shared this evening were very close to breaking down any walls remaining on either side.

"Martha, are you here? Are you alright?" came a worried voice at the door. The moment broken, they turned to face Jack. A smile broke across Martha's face as she ran to embrace him in a hug. John could see the relief in Martha's demeanor and the joy in Jack's as they hugged one another, and he wondered just what had happened in this room, on that couch, and how many times.

Twelve hours ago he'd been content, even if he was alone, and now he was with two new-but-old friends, in the middle of an adventure, and feeling more connected and alive than he had in 2 years. He would have given anything to turn back time.


	5. Chapter 5: Hat Trick

**1**

It looks like a simple black bowler, a throwback to an era when men were gentler (at least in public), and women were more ladylike (at least in public), and everyone drank lemonade (at least in public), and the world was so very ordered (at least—well, you get the idea). Ianto Jones knows, though, that it's so much more than that, so much more dangerous and complicated and just like that era, the hat is hiding something ever so wicked.

The hat belongs to Subject 753 (whom we'll call Peter) and was issued to him one week ago by the super-secret and highly unethical UNIT team doing shadow research in techlepathy, telepathy's mechanistically-inclined sibling. Peter belongs to the experimental group, because even though this research is unethical, the researchers follow the most stringent guidelines when it comes to the actual experimental procedure and so Peter belongs to the experimental group and is unaware of this fact. All he knows is that he was issued 3 hats when he entered the program; after an operation, he was required to wear one of those hats each time he left the confines of his home. Everyone thinks he's rude now, but he always wears one of them—the bowler, the cap, or the hood—when he leaves the house. He forgot once, and the piercing sound that filled his ears when he stepped outside his door made him wish he'd never been cursed to walk this earth, so he never forgot again.

Peter doesn't really know what was done to him, but he was paid well enough for it and aside from the threat of that headache and having to always invite girls back to his place so that he can take his hat off for a shag, it's really not all that bad. Of course, the one time he did get a girl to come over he could swear he heard her say that she'd never been in such a dump, which he thought was quite rude, and when that shocked her, she'd stormed out. Later he realized that she hadn't said anything at all, which made him wonder whether the thing they'd done to his head that required a shave and a bandage was slightly psychic in nature.

He also doesn't know that the chip that was implanted in his brain was merely the first in a series of steps to test out this device. If he'd known that, he might not have been so keen to sign up. The chip was not really stable; in fact, the only things keeping him conscious and alert were those hats; more than two minutes of hatless wandering would leave him catatonic, locked in an endlessly repeating loop of his most recent thoughts. The next step for the researchers is to test various ways of controlling the chip without the containment fields; after all, the soldiers who will eventually be using these chips will need to be able to download information without any visible devices. Lumic's Cybermen were a bit too obviously visible; this operation needed a more delicate approach.

And, of course, the precursor of this technology is exactly what killed another Martha Jones's cousin in a world far away. Adeola was destined to be upgraded.

Doctor Martha Jones is not part of this group; she's not one to work in the shadows. No, her research is completely above board, right down to the fact that her Subject 753 (not called Peter and living in a different flat on a different street which is much less smelly and hat-free) knows precisely what he's been doing and why, and how to keep in and keep out thoughts. He suffers no headaches and needs no external devices to keep things under control. Nope, he's entirely in control of his mind, and while neither Doctor Martha Jones nor the other UNIT researchers working on this daylight telepathy project can keep him from using his newfound (and entirely naturally arrived at) powers for evil, they are sure enough of his psychological profile to know that he operates from benevolent impulses and is, therefore, a fairly safe risk.

**  
2**

Ianto Jones, in securing the bowler, was trying to find out exactly what UNIT was using Lumic's earpod technologies to do. He'd known of Martha's work but grew suspicious two days ago. Torchwood operatives picked up a near-catatonic shadow research victim; CCTV footage revealed that the catatonic state had been induced following the theft of his hat by what appeared to be a homeless person. Once they discovered the chip embedded in his skull, Ianto knew he needed to get his hands on one of those hats. He used John because he wanted to keep Torchwood's name out of it, lest anyone get the (very wrong) idea that they were interested in developing mind control. They already could control minds—they just chose not to—and he didn't like people thinking they were behind UNIT on anything. As he dug into the situation, he found out that there was much more ugliness underneath than he'd thought.

In every organization, there are those disgruntled sorts who feel maligned or disenfranchised. Colonel Reginald Prince was precisely this sort. He was deeply invested in this project and had recruited Doctor Martha Jones with the expectation that she would advance it. Of course, he could hardly own his interest publically—UNIT brass had made it quite clear that financial ties to private industry would be highly scrutinized, and he'd twisted his personal financial trail into a mighty pretzel to hide his relationship to Lumic's organization. Lumic's arrogance and impatience had defeated him, in the end, and Prince was pleased that the young and intelligent doctor had her own motivations to pursue the research. He'd ensured that she would be placed high enough in the hierarchy to be able to hide this project, but low enough to be unable to stop it without killing her career with UNIT and severely limiting her chances to find suitable employment outside of the organization. He'd set her up to fail, trusting that human nature would operate in her to force her acquiescence should the critical point be reached.

He'd been wrong and hadn't counted on the strength of Martha's convictions; had he known, for example, about the sacrifices she'd always been willing to make throughout her life to do what she believed was right, well, he'd have known that she would, upon discovering the hidden research laboratory and group, shut the entire process down. He also had not considered the formidable opponent he'd have in Colonel Mace, who, while most interested in the strategic command of UNIT forces, had lost several family members in the Cybermen disaster, and was not eager to see any application of Lumic's research that would lead to further enslavement of minds.

When Peter reported the theft of his hat, he'd contacted a low-level guard, who'd seen fit to send a dispatch to the entire research unit, including Doctor Jones, who was the very last person that Prince wanted to find out about the restarted project. He'd worked hard to get her to agree to taking the long holiday; after she'd shut down the project, she'd become quite observant, and he'd had to put his plans on hold for a Very Long Time. The successful completion of her project (which he did, malicious designs to the contrary, think was quite brilliant and impressive) gave him just the opening he needed, and he'd eventually got her to agree to the holiday, which, frankly, she deserved.

He was lucky that the email didn't identify the missing item, but the fact that the test subject lived in her building meant that her suspicions may be aroused, which was the last thing he needed. He'd made the really quite difficult decision to employ the biological bomb; he liked clean solutions to problems, and this was the cleanest one that he could devise. The device was nearly undetectable and could easily be explained away once the nature of her research became public; people had been very wary of any attempt to directly access their minds in the wake of the Cybermen situation. Doctor Jones would be vilified in the press, yes, but the frenzy it would create would buy him enough time and cover to safely relocate and continue his operation.

It was not without remorse, however, that he'd given the order to use the weapon against Doctor Jones. He had, after all, recruited her, and had great respect for her abilities. His desire to see the realization of this project, however, had trumped that respect. The promise of a regiment of soldiers united with one mind and purpose was too great to ignore. Free will, that most precious human commodity, could be awfully inconvenient on the battlefield.

**3**

Jack and Martha met over nanogenes. As there was neither Doctor nor TARDIS in this universe to intercept, the WWII plot failed miserably; the Chula ambulance did indeed crash, but the intended targets of Jack's con were not really interested in sticking around to help once they'd discovered the game. Jamie, the child at ground zero, was still damaged, but eventually, Nancy succumbed to the guilt and sorrow of the loss of her child, and they were both healed by honesty and the power of nanogenes. By the time Jack worked out what had actually happened to the people who'd come into contact with Jamie, Albion Hospital and all those affected were quarantined and heavily guarded. When the German bomb fell, the ambulance was destroyed, but the hospital remained. It was allowed to fall into complete disrepair while the military occupants waited for the bodies of the wounded, altered, but not invincible, to succumb to the inevitabilities of age and deterioration. UNIT eventually took over control of the site from the regular army.

The weight of what he'd done continued to pull him to this very spot. Jack visited it regularly—he had set up the small memorial—and on each visit he added the latest names to the list of the deceased. The final victim had finally died one year after Martha was sent on her routine checkup and met Jack.

The fact that she was beautiful, intelligent, witty, warm, and kindhearted alone would have been enough to tempt him to flirt. The fact that she wasn't even remotely interested made her impossible to resist. He became an avid scholar of early Earth history and found all sorts of scrapes to bring her into, all in an attempt to impress her. He always managed to get her back in time for whatever she needed to do, and she seemed to enjoy the travel, but he knew that eventually she'd grow tired of him and of the danger; she was too rooted to be seduced entirely by the lure of time.

The second-to-last time he saw her he'd nearly wiped out two thirds of the universe. It was the anniversary of the day the Cybermen were born, which meant that it was also the anniversary of Martha's cousin's death at their hands. He could feel her distancing herself from him and knew that it was just a matter of time before she put an end to their adventuring; her work was demanding more and more of her time and he knew how important it was going to be. Martha was, first and foremost, a scientist, and while she'd initially gone with him for a break from work and her grief, she'd also wanted to learn as much as she could. She'd stipulated that they only travel to the past and that they do nothing to change history, and while he'd been tempted a few times, he'd agreed on their trips to behave himself. What had happened at Albion Hospital had turned him away from his more nefarious monetary pursuits, but he still wasn't above tweaking the past, particularly if it suited what he considered an altruistic purpose—nothing big, but tiny victories (and occasional cheap tricks) were allowances he made. They were a balm to his wounded conscience, a way for him to safely exert his power over the laws of time and to make up in small ways for the damage he'd caused by his selfish recklessness.

This time he'd wanted to impress her, to do something so magnanimous that she'd stay with him. When he found her at Adeola's gravesite, the lilies she'd brought hanging from her hand while she wiped away her tears, he knew what he would do. He'd taken the flowers from Martha's hand, wrapped her in his arms, and set his manipulator to return to the evening of Adeola's death.

Jack was unfailingly accurate in his time travel, and he got Martha to Adeola's flat at precisely 5 p.m. that day. They stood outside and she was confused about what he intended until she realized where they were standing and worked out the when. Her confusion turned to joy, then anger—while she'd longed for a moment to say goodbye to the cousin who'd been like a sister to her, she felt that he'd violated her trust (what little she felt she had to give him) by intruding on her family and her memories in this way. They'd argued a bit and had been so wrapped up in the discussion they hadn't noticed Adeola turning the corner, taking notice of them, and coming over to say hello. Martha, still angry with Jack but overwhelmed at the sight of her cousin, had embraced her and begun talking to her when Jack abruptly pulled her aside and gruffly said "We have to go, we have to get her on her way now!" She didn't quite understand until she followed his eyes and saw the gruesome winged creature he was watching.

Martha looked at Adeola and in that moment felt for the first time the terrible power of time travel. She took a deep breath, walked back to her cousin, and embraced her. She told her they'd meet for breakfast the next morning as they'd planned and suggested that she hurry on to get ready for her date. She watched Adeola put in the earpiece, smile at her and wave goodbye. She saw the creature fly away. She walked over to Jack and hit him again and again and again as she sobbed.

He took her back to the cemetery and then disappeared.

Martha had never told him much about Adeola, so he thought that she'd been converted with the millions of others who perished at Lumic's factory. After the visit and the appearance of the reaper, though, he realized there must be something even her memoirs didn't reveal about that day, so he took a trip into her past. He followed her for the entire day, from the moment she left her flat until he got the answer he was seeking at the hospital that night. She was assigned to the emergency room and she looked so much younger than she'd ever seemed to him—full of life, vivacious and fresh.

The bodies started appearing at the emergency room at 10 p.m. There were hundreds of them; the hospital's emergency facilities, corridors—even the staff break rooms and the cafeterias—were utilized, as the staff worked tirelessly to save those who had been partially converted. With so much chaos and horror, it was difficult to keep his focus on Martha, but he forced himself to remain hidden while keeping up with her. At times she looked as if she'd be ill, but she'd continued to pull herself together and to keep working, even though the best efforts of the best doctors were, in the main, futile.

When she reached the gurney at the end of the hall she was assigned, she pulled back the sheet and fainted. Jack ran up to catch her, then gently laid her on the floor. He knew what he would find under the sheet, but pulled it back anyway; he needed to see because he needed to share that pain with her. It was the only way he could imagine making amends.

It was Adeola; she was barely alive, in great pain, and almost unrecognizable. He backed away from the gurney and retched into a waste bin nearby. When he'd caught his breath, he picked up Martha and carried her to a nearby hallway. He recognized Oliver Morgenstern's name as Martha's future assistant, and he quickly told him that Martha had fainted on seeing her cousin's converted body. Oliver assured him that Martha and Adeola would be cared for, and Jack strode into the night.

Martha left Royal Hope Hospital after that and returned to the research laboratory. Now that the technology had been realized and successfully used, she knew that it was just a matter of time until someone else applied it. She was determined to do what she could to equip people with the ability to control their own thoughts and actions before it was too late.


	6. Chapter 6: Standing Still

Jack watched Martha dress John's wounds, her fingers nimble as she wrapped his slender chest with the bandages. He was beginning to feel like the third wheel, and that feeling was becoming more and more uncomfortable. He'd never expected that he would win with Martha in the end, but had never considered the possibility that he'd be a witness to the relationship that would pull her away from him.

He thought about how he'd found them moments before, Martha seated on the desk, John standing so close to her, his hand touching her cheek in a way that Jack had never been allowed—or allowed himself, if he was honest—to touch her. He'd now twice intruded on some moment between them, and he understood that when he was gone, things happened to bring them together. His absence was easily filled with John's presence.

Jack's second visit to the investigator's flat had yielded the screwdriver and some information that verified what he had already begun to suspect about the man supplanting his role in Martha's life. He wasn't a Time Agent, he wasn't a criminal, and he certainly wasn't a bad guy. He was, however, clearly out of his time and, if that book was as true as Jack was certain it was, out of his dimension as well.

As he watched Martha tending to John, and watched John watching Martha, he remembered the last time he had been in this room, when she'd performed a similar, although more serious, office for him. He'd made another tremendous mistake, and Martha had been quick to come to his side when he'd called for her help.

After the incident with Adeola, he'd drifted along through time, stopping off at the roughest and meanest spots of the roughest and meanest moments in human history to indulge in a surfeit of pain. He'd certainly got his fill of everything, including sex for comfort to blunt the edge of the horrors he witnessed on a regular basis. After a time, though, he stopped visiting post 21st century disasters; the growing telepathic abilities of the human race amplified the impact of each situation more than he found he could bear. He stuck to the pre-psychic eras, where he could maintain a safer distance from the loss and pain. When John Hart found him watching as a group of young girls, thin and pale from months of abuse, were being marched into the chambers, he'd made a perverse joke about Jack turning into a voyeur. Something in Jack had snapped and he'd turned on John, engaging him in a fight that ended with a knife in Jack's abdomen and John's disappearance. He'd had just enough presence of mind to travel to the hospital and to call Martha for help.

By the time she'd found him, he was nearly unconscious, deathly pale, and had lost a great deal of blood. The equipment at the hospital was primitive, but she knew that what she needed was there; she quickly gathered the necessary items and brought them to the room where Jack lay. She worked fast, stabilizing the wound, removing the weapon, and suturing the skin. She'd brought him to her home to care for him, trusting neither the hospital system nor the UNIT facilities with any knowledge of him. She was still angry with him—the visit to Adeola had so transgressed her boundaries that she couldn't ever forgive him—but he'd frequently saved her life in their travels, as she'd frequently saved his, and she couldn't let him suffer when she could help. After he'd recovered enough to travel, they'd parted ways.

Jack had returned to the 51st century newly aware of the place of suffering in the context of human existence. After his tour of sorrows, during his time convalescing at Martha's, he'd remembered other, brighter points in time, and had begun to see the ebb and flow of universal emotions like joy and sorrow as natural; while the acts that precipitated pain were all too often the results of aberrant human actions, he had witnessed tremendously moving acts of human kindness through the worst conditions. John Hart's taunt had shamed him because he was right; he was finding some strange thrill in witnessing the suffering. By continually holding it up as the object of his gaze, he had blinded himself to the good in the world. When he left Martha's home, he left with the knowledge that this was what had drawn him to her, the way that she accepted suffering as part of life, but refused to let it rule her choices. She had accepted him, with all of his projected pain, but hadn't let him infect her with his sickness. She'd been true to her own course and he wanted nothing more now than to find his own path so that he could be worthy of, if not her, someone worth being worthy of.

He smiled at her. She was so beautiful. She and John were poring over the documents he'd brought from his side-trip to the UNIT medical labs; after he'd seen Martha's building, he'd put off his worry for her safety by traveling back to the moments before the explosion. His heart had broken as he watched John kiss Martha, then had nearly stopped as they flew from the building when the bomb detonated. Once they'd got up and begun moving into the shadows, he'd decided a bit more intel was in order. A few hops later and he'd secured evidence of Prince's secret research trial and his connection to Lumic. Jack smirked at the memory of how ridiculously easy it was for him to get the evidence. Well, easy for someone who can move beyond walls. Why did the bad guys always leave a paper trail?

The room grew quiet as Martha and John stopped talking and turned to Jack. "We're trying to work out a plan, but we'll need your help. It might be dangerous. Are you in?" Her eyes were playful, and for a moment it was as if their sad history had melted away.

He flashed her a charming grin. "For you, Doctor Jones? Anything."

**###**

The three of them were waiting for the phone to ring. They'd decided to contact UNIT directly and to work through Colonel Mace, who Martha felt she could still trust. The documents that Jack had procured seemed to be wholly unrelated to him and entirely focused on Prince's malfeasance. Martha had been incredulous at first—Prince had recruited her and had seemed her ally when she'd discovered the project the first time—but as she delved deeper and deeper into the files, she began to see how carefully he'd covered his tracks and how truly malevolent he was at heart. The man was cold; the carefully outlined plans for the research trial demonstrated a clear disregard for human suffering and medical ethics. They also, though, were capable of destroying her career if they were to become part of any public record.

As Chief Medical Researcher for UNIT, Martha oversaw many research projects, and while her main focus had been the telepathy work, she'd managed to keep up with the other activities of her colleagues until the end of her own project came about. There had been such a flurry of activity that she'd handed off some of her oversight duties to her assistant, Oliver Morgenstern, whom she'd known from her med school days, and had trusted to carry out her orders. Her trust wasn't entirely misplaced; he did carry out her orders. He reviewed every document, made sure that the required research protocols were in place, and stamped her seal of approval on each one. Unfortunately, Oliver didn't share Martha's particular moral code, so he had no compunction about the nature of the research project; he'd actually been interested in working on it as he saw tremendous potential in the project. He remembered her reaction to her cousin's death as well, and consoled himself with the reasoning that she was biased because of her personal connection to the technology.

Morgenstern's wibbly morality, though, had placed Martha in a very precarious position, and she, John, and Jack had to think quickly to come up with a plan that would extricate her before she was dragged down into the muck with UNIT. They knew that it was only a matter of time until Prince discovered that Martha had survived his trap and began hunting her. She'd called her mother and sister to let them know she was alright; Francine had been frantic when she'd heard the news about the explosion. While Martha was concerned that her family might be under surveillance, she couldn't let them think that she was dead. The trio had decided to force a confrontation, and were waiting for the phone call from Colonel Mace that would put their plan into action.

Jack was pacing the room, wanting to be active, and while John could certainly understand that feeling, his body was a bit too tired at the moment to reflect his internal energy. He and Martha were waiting it out on the couch.

"Martha?"

"Yes John?"

"Is this the life you wanted? I mean, when you were a kid, was this what you dreamt about?"

"Some of it, yeah. Helping people, discovering things, doing something important—I wanted to do those things." She played with the ring on her right hand. "I didn't really expect it to be this dangerous though, or to find myself on the point of being killed and disgraced." Martha rubbed her temples with her fingertips, and John could see her aging before his eyes. She shot him a weak smile. "Bet you've got much more than you bargained for tonight?"

"Are you kidding? Toxic telepathy chips, bio bombs, rogue time travelers with sonic pistols, megalomaniacal military officials—used to be just another day's work for me! Although, now that you mention it, I'll certainly think twice before accepting a pint from a stranger, no matter how beautiful she is." He winked at her, and was glad when her smile widened. "But really, I placed myself right in the middle of this mess, didn't I? I mean, if I hadn't stolen that hat, then you'd still have a flat and a job and—"

"No. Don't." Martha's voice was terse. "Because you stole that hat, this plot is out in the open. If you hadn't, I would have never discovered it until it was too late. Your thievery may end up saving many lives." She looked at Jack, who was standing across the room now and guarding the door. "I don't want to think of what would happen to humanity's future with that technology available." Her voice was tender, and John knew that for all the tension between them, she and Jack cared for each other greatly.

"When this is done, do you think you'll start traveling again?"

She shook her head. "No. It was fun for a while, but there's plenty in the here and now to discover for several lifetimes."

"Yeah," he said softly and took her hand in his. With his fingertips he traced small spiral patterns in her palm. Martha could see a faraway look in his eyes, and she wondered where he'd traveled, and when, and who with. "What about you? Do you miss it? Traveling?"

"Sometimes. Lots of times." He sighed and released her hand to run his fingers through his hair. "But that life's done for me."

Martha could detect traces of sadness and longing, as well as a hint of bitterness, in his tone. On a different day, under different circumstances—if she hadn't just been within inches of death, if she hadn't felt some hope mingled in with his sadness—she might have been angry with the universe for sending another broken time traveler her way. Right now, she just wanted to comfort him. She rubbed his back with one hand, and brought the other toward his cheek to stroke it. He took her hand in his, brought it to his lips, and kissed it.

His voice was small and soft as he spoke into her skin. "The smallest moments, Martha, the most ordinary, can be the most important, the best in our lives." He beamed at her then, and she could see the hope beating back the sorrow. Maybe not so broken after all, she thought. Not so broken as—

Martha's phone rang. She read the incoming number on the mobile. "Mace" she said through gritted teeth. She took a deep breath; the waiting was over and it was time to put the plan in motion. She wanted her freedom, her research, her life back. "Here goes nothing."

John listened to her half of the conversation. Martha made the arrangements as planned; Mace would meet her at the café they'd chosen two hours from now. She hung up the phone and turned to John. "That's my bit done. Your turn."

"I need a phone." He shook his head as she offered hers. "No, not that one—likely to be traced. Jack, have you got one?" There was silence. Jack was gone. "Now where has he gone off to?" John groused.

"I think I know where to find him," Martha replied, and he followed her back out of the building. He could see Jack in the distance, standing before the small memorial. When they were about fifty yards away, Martha stopped. "Let me? Trust me?" she asked. John nodded and watched her walk to him.

**###**

Martha placed her hand on Jack's back as she came up behind him. As he turned to her, she could sense an urgency about him, the same urgency that usually accompanied an ill-advised attempt to do what he thought was the right thing. He clasped her hands, looked into her eyes and kissed her quickly. "I don't know how this is going to end," he said, his eyes closed and forehead resting against hers, "but I do know that you have to live. I don't trust them, I don't entirely trust him"—he gestured toward John—"but if I've learned anything, it's to trust in you and your judgment." Martha started to protest—she'd clearly made some wrong turns, had trusted in the wrong people—but Jack wouldn't let her continue. "No Martha, don't doubt yourself; you trusted them and they made you believe you could, but that doesn't mean that you were wrong. If I've learned anything from you, it's that we have the power to choose what we do, and that we have to be ready to accept the consequences of those choices."

He pressed his wrist strap into her hands. "I want you to have this with you." He could see that she was confused and concerned for him. "I've already programmed it to teleport you to the safest location I can imagine. If something goes wrong, and I mean anything, use it. With any luck, I'll meet you there."

"What if you don't, if you can't? I don't want you to be stuck here." Martha felt the tremendous significance of Jack's gesture; he meant only to protect her and damn the consequences for his own life, his future. "I don't feel right doing this, taking this from you. You know that I can't ever lo—"

Jack covered her lips with a finger to cut off her declaration. "I know that you can't love me, not the way that I want you to. I've known longer than you might think." He gave her a sad smile. "But that won't stop me from loving you and wanting you to be safe. Thank you for being my friend."

The further this extended farewell progressed, the more concerned for everyone's safety Martha became. "Jack, you're frightening me. What do you think is going to happen? Why won't you tell me what's got you feeling so fatal?"

"They've already tried to kill you once Martha, and they blew up an entire building to do it, which means they aren't particularly concerned about collateral damage. Governments don't like their dirty laundry getting out and they'll use anything they can to keep it hidden. I don't really understand why this is happening, what's gone wrong in UNIT, but until we isolate the problem, I'm going to prepare for the worst." Jack didn't tell her that nothing in his historical knowledge of the period had prepared him for what was happening. He knew Martha's fate, had read her life story, and he knew that this situation wasn't part of the record. Either today's events had been very well-contained or someone was meddling with her timeline.

**###**

John stood there for a few minutes, then sat as his legs were getting tired. He closed his eyes. He could feel the pain of the last few hours, the last day, throughout his body. The adrenalin rush he'd been working from was starting to fade and he knew that he'd need another good burst before undertaking the next step. He couldn't rest until he knew that Martha was safe; he felt responsible for her situation, for putting her in this danger.

She was so very different in so many ways; experience and life had made her so. In essentials, though, she was the same—caring, resourceful, inquisitive, strong, and trusting in other people to do the right thing. She was brilliant—she'd sorted out telepathy—but still compassionate. It wasn't the path his other-Martha had taken, but it was impressive all the same. She'd dedicated her life and work to give people back the control that Lumic had taken from them. He knew that he might not see her again after tonight, but he hoped he would. He wanted to know more about her, and he realized how little he'd really known about that other-Martha, about the small human things.

He watched her speaking to Jack, her face all friendly concern (he could see that now, he understood a bit better, though not entirely, what had passed between them). His hand reached up to touch the lips that had now kissed her twice (once, just once each), and he wondered if this feeling in his chest was merely the result of the bruised and broken ribs or something a bit less clinical and a bit more human.

Martha was walking back toward him, with Jack not far behind. He stood slowly—his chest and legs were sore—and prepared himself for what he had to do next. She stood before him, Jack's mobile in hand. "Got that plan ready? We don't have much time to get it in place." His hand brushed hers as he took the phone from her.

"I'm ready. It's going to be OK, Martha. I promise you." John took a deep breath and called the Tyler mansion.


	7. Chapter 7: Standoff

Tension built in the pit of her stomach. Martha felt simultaneously exhausted and wound up; as they advanced toward the meeting with Mace, all that she could think about was how completely and utterly stressed she was over the whole situation. Her job was, as she knew it, over; there was no way, even if UNIT turned out to be mostly in the clear, that she could return to work for them. She didn't know how she was going to pick up the pieces, or whether she'd get any of her research back. But she couldn't think about that; she didn't have a home. Her flat was gone, and while she'd been considering moving for some time now, she'd been in this one since her med school days, and it was really too small for her, too student-y, but she hadn't imagined it would be like this. All of her possessions, so many memories—she pushed them out of her mind too.

Her companions walked on either side of her as they approached the city centre where the café was located. If there was anything in this evening that could overtake the unsettled feeling she had from the loss of livelihood and home, it was the presence of these two men. How odd, she thought, that she, of all people in the world, would be with two men who'd traveled in time, and that she'd find herself an object of their desire—well, for one of them at least, although she was fairly certain that John was keen as well. She'd always held Jack at arm's length; he was too reckless, too dangerous, too much of a temptation into the heady power that time travel brought. But John—there was something romantic, yet somber, about him. When he looked at her, she could feel that his life, his adventures, whatever they'd been, weighed on him in a way that had matured him. One day—she hadn't even known him for one day—yet she felt like she'd known him for years.

Her mind drifted back to the telepathic link they'd briefly shared, the ensuing conversation, the kiss—a kiss that she knew was a DNA transfer to shield her from the bomb, but had felt like more and caused him to blush furiously when she called him on it. He was, she was almost certain, alien, yet he seemed so human; his injuries certainly suggested he was human, and as she'd treated him, she hadn't detected anything that indicated he was anything other than human. Still, what he'd said about the creature and about being alone, about wanting to be known, being afraid of becoming human—perhaps she needed to take a step back. Her time with UNIT had introduced her to many possibilities, as had her travels with Jack—from time to time they'd come across alien races. She knew that not all aliens were hostile, and John didn't seem to register as hostile. The fact that Jack, who knew so much more than she ever would about the subject, didn't seem at all concerned (although he had said he didn't entirely trust John) gave her a moment's pause.

Jack--she hadn't even, hadn't ever, let Jack link to her; she'd really only mastered it several months ago, along with her subjects. He'd wanted to—he'd wanted to share lots of things with her—but she'd wanted to sort it out on her own first, to figure it out for herself. She needed to know that she would be the one to master telepathy on her own.

But now—

She took Jack's hand in hers and concentrated just a bit.

_Martha?_

_Hi. _

_You've never wanted to—why now?_

_I wanted to share this with you at least once._ She could feel him smile and that feeling made her a bit ashamed that she'd held herself so far away from him for so long; no matter what he'd done, he deserved better than she'd been able to give him. _I'm sorry I made you wait._

_It's OK. I understand._ Martha could feel that he really did, and she wondered how long it would be before she was able to project her feelings as well as her thoughts.

_Not long,_ Jack laughed, and Martha remembered that she was communicating.

_Sorry. I'm just so tired; it's hard to maintain control._ Martha concentrated again; she needed to ask him before they reached their separation point. _Are you sure we can trust him?_

Jack was surprised by this question; he wasn't used to Martha consulting him in this way, yet twice she'd asked him about John.

_Yes, I believe we can. Why do you ask?_

_My gut tells me I can; even if he hadn't saved my life, he's been so sincere and open with me this evening. It's just that earlier, before you came over to us in the pub, he practically told me that he's—_

_--Alien? _

_Yes._ Martha was surprised. _How did you know?_

_Been in his flat, remember? I can't tell you what he is or where or when he's from. All that I can—and will—tell you is that if you want him to, I believe he'll eventually tell you all himself._

John had stopped walking. "We're here. Martha, Jack—are you ready?" He knew they'd been communicating privately, and while he didn't begrudge them the indulgence—he knew they still had no real reason to trust him and every reason to trust each other—he couldn't help but feel left out. _Just make sure she's safe,_ he reminded himself, and he remembered the half-hearted promise he'd made to himself earlier. _Just this once._ But he wanted more than once; he wanted to know her, to know this Martha. Was that too much to ask?

It was time for them to split up. Jack enveloped Martha in a big hug, lifting her off the ground and burying his face in her hair. When he put her down, he kissed her forehead before letting her go. She turned to John and, putting her hands gently at his sides, gave him a small kiss on the cheek. Before releasing him, she mouthed the words "Thank you," and he could feel his heart breaking. She was walking away from him all over again.

**###**

John and Jack entered the shop together, ordered drinks, and positioned themselves toward the rear of the café. Jack had his blaster on his lap and was using a newspaper to hide it from view. John's hand clutched the sonic screwdriver in his pocket; Jack, and to a lesser extent, Martha, had tried to convince him to take Martha's gun, but he'd refused. He had the screwdriver; he hoped he wouldn't have to use it.

John saw Martha enter at precisely 7 a.m., and was pleased that she never once looked over to where he and Jack were seated. She purchased a drink and then positioned herself at a table dead center in the room, her back to the two of them and her face toward the door. He used the small mirror he'd taken from the hospital to watch the scene behind him unfold while he quietly reported to Jack, who was pretending to be very interested in the society pages.

"Mace is here," he whispered to Jack and then grinned heartily as he added, "and so is my special guest." He watched Sarah Jane Smith as she positioned herself just close enough to the couple to hear their conversation, but not so close that she'd be detected. He had to hand it to her—she was as good in this universe as she'd been in the last. She blended into the café's clientele with ease; no one took any notice of her.

Martha and Mace had already begun talking, and John could see that Mace had yet to be convinced that Martha had no knowledge of, and wasn't acting on, Prince's orders. He knew that Sarah Jane was likely recording the conversation, and he trusted that Martha was judiciously choosing her words; the success of this plan depended on her giving away very little that could be used against UNIT, or her, when and if Sarah Jane's story went to press. There was too much potential for a public backlash given the sensitivity of Lumic's legacy, and John knew that Martha had worked too long and hard for public fear to rob her of the credit she deserved for her monumental achievement. Pete had been skeptical about bringing the reporter in, but John had convinced him that it would be better for both Torchwood and UNIT in the end if they could be in front of the news cycle.

His stomach began to churn as he watched a third figure enter the scene. "Prince?" he asked Jack, who gave a quick nod after glancing at the table. "Damn," John muttered. They knew it was inevitable that Prince would appear—John expected Mace to alert him if he wasn't already listening in on someone's phone line—but he'd hoped that Martha would have made enough headway before Prince interrupted. He watched Prince seat himself between Martha and Mace, and Martha's back tensed as Prince placed his hand on her arm. He could see the barrel of the gun Prince had hidden under the table and was pointing at Martha. Jack calmly folded his paper and placed his hand on the blaster in his lap. John could see Martha struggling to free herself from Prince's grip; when she yelled "Let me go!" he started to rise, then stopped when Jack grabbed his hand. John looked at the mirror again.

The two men were still there but Martha was gone.

Jack quickly rose from his seat, pointing the blaster at Prince as he advanced on the table. John followed, his grip tight on the screwdriver in his pocket. He needed to keep his focus on the situation, but he was concerned about Martha. What had happened? "Jack, did you see—"

Jack curtly replied, "Don't worry. She's safe."

Sarah Jane was still there, although now she was not quite as invisible. She was moving toward the other patrons in the café in an attempt to protect the innocent bystanders. What she didn't know, though, was that the other patrons were Torchwood operatives brought in for just such an emergency. This misunderstanding was soon cleared up as Jake, Toshiko, and Ross pulled their own firearms, acknowledged John and Jack, and began advancing on the two UNIT officers, who were now backed by the four red-capped soldiers they'd traveled with to this meeting.

The two groups faced off around the table in the center of the room. John thought fast; this wasn't part of the plan, but if there was one thing he was good it, it was making it up as he went along. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, pulled out the chair Martha had occupied moments before, and sat down. "Colonel, would you care to join me? I think we should finish the conversation you were having with Doctor Jones." He indicated the chair opposite him. Mace took the offered seat after whispering instructions to the soldiers behind him. "And you sir," John pointed to Prince, "why don't you join us as well? You don't mind if the Captain ensures you are unarmed?" Prince grunted his assent, and Jack walked over and patted him down. Satisfied that the Colonel was clean, Jack helped him into his chair, then trained his blaster at the back of his head.

John glared at the two men and spoke. "Now I think we can have a nice, civilized chat, don't you? Funny thing, civilization, that crazy impulse in man that leads him to join together, build societies to advance and protect. I love the idea—really, literally universal in the end—and I've found that the greatest civilizations thrive not solely because of their ability to form social units, but because they are open about what goes on behind closed doors. Keeps people and groups honest, that's what it does, and I love honesty and being out in the open. I especially love the power of a free press. Miss Smith, are you still back there?" John watched Mace's face turn pale as the well-known investigative journalist came forward, recorder, a notepad, and a stack of files at the ready. "Ah, there you are. Love your work, by the way. Won't you join us?" He grinned widely at her as he indicated the last empty seat at the table.

"I know the two Colonels, but I don't believe we've met," she said as she placed her belongings on the table and extended her hand to John.

He continued to grin as he took the offered hand and shook it warmly. "John Smith. It is truly an honor and a pleasure." He'd taken a risk and it had paid off. He could see it in her eyes; this woman was entirely his Sarah Jane.

She took her seat and put on a pair of glasses. "So," she said, looking down at her notes, "who'd like to begin? Mr. Smith, I believe that you arranged this little meeting, so we could begin with you. Although," she perched her glasses on the tip of her nose and stared at him over the top of them, "I'd like to know why Doctor Jones isn't here to speak for herself. Just how did she manage that disappearing act?"

"She's somewhere safe for now," Jack said. "We thought it best to hide her. This creep" he jabbed Prince's back, "has already made one attempt on her life this evening. She's not going to be safe until he's locked away." Sarah Jane looked satisfied for the moment, but John knew that she'd not stay away from Martha for long. He wondered where Jack had hidden her and whether he'd ever see her again.

Prince sneered. "You have no evidence to support this accusation and I have no reason to kill anyone, least of all Doctor Jones. I have been one of the strongest supporters of her research and am, frankly, quite disappointed in her approval of this project, which we'd agreed was dangerous and unethical."

Sarah Jane looked entirely unaffected by this little speech. She looked at John and asked "may I?" He nodded and sat back to listen while she detailed the entire plot, right down to the evidence of the payoffs Morgenstern had received in exchange for his abuse of the authority Martha had given him, and of Prince's order for the bomb at Martha's flat. This last bit was a surprise to John; he knew Ianto was good at getting things, but this surpassed John's estimation of his abilities.

He could sense Mace's growing indignation, and Prince's growing fear and tension as Sarah Jane laid out one piece of evidence after another. He noticed Prince fiddling with a ring on his finger and his eyes shot to the four soldiers standing behind Mace. Their eyes looked unnaturally focused on a distant spot on the wall. John slipped his hand into his pocket to grab the screwdriver. He got Jack's attention, then glanced quickly between Prince's hands and the soldiers. Jack's eyes grew wide as he realized what was going on.

Sarah Jane had stopped speaking. Colonel Mace looked at Prince and quietly asked him, "Reginald, what do you have to say to these charges?"

Prince smirked. "There's nothing to say, is there, when the case is laid out so starkly before you. I'm not planning to give your readers any fuel to add to the fire I'm sure they'll use to burn me in effigy once your story is published. And you," he faced John, "with your little lectures on civilization—you naïve twit. You and Doctor Jones—a perfect pair—so smug and condescending in your ethical sureties."

John became frantic; he couldn't let Prince do this, couldn't let him turn those soldiers into mindless killers. "Prince, stop this! You don't have to do this to them. It isn't fair—you have to let them go, give them back control. Lumic was wrong—you are wrong—you can't take their free will!"

Prince scoffed at him. "You don't get it, do you? I own them! They are mine to do with as I wish; the perfect soldier, the perfect fighting machine. If we don't do this, if we don't use the technology that is there, that's being developed all over the world, we lose our supremacy, our foothold, our power! England will not fall to her enemies because of your soft-hearted morality. It is only because of the shadowy path I take that you get the privilege of walking in the light." He twisted his ring again and ordered, "Kill them all." The soldiers raised their guns and for a moment no one breathed.

A piercing shriek came from beneath the table, and the soldiers dropped their guns and fell to their knees. They clutched their heads and groaned in agony as the sonic spike rendered the dampers in their caps ineffective. John finally shut down the screwdriver when the last soldier had passed out from the pain. He looked at Prince, angry tears in his eyes. "You monster," he spat at him.

"I'm not the one who just condemned four young men to a mental prison. For all your sanctimonious speeches, you walk in just as much darkness as I." Prince's smug smile lessened slightly as he felt the pressure of Jack's gun on his spine.

"Mr. Smith didn't plant those lethal chips into their brains and he didn't order them to kill. This is entirely your fault, Reginald, and I believe I've heard enough." Colonel Mace looked across the table to John and extended his hand. "I don't believe we've been officially introduced. Colonel Arthur Mace." John shook his hand with a bit less enthusiasm, Mace noted, than he'd had when he shook Sarah Jane's. "Doctor Jones is lucky to have a friend as clever as you."

"I did nothing. Torchwood really did it all. I just got the right people together." As if on cue, Ianto Jones and Pete Tyler walked into the café. "Pete! Ianto! You're just in time." John rose to release his seat; this was the part he never liked, and he was glad to turn over the clean-up to the two men. "My work here is done, I believe, if Colonel Mace and Miss Smith will see to it that Doctor Jones's name is kept entirely in the clear." He glared at Prince. "We can't have her important work sullied by any association with this rubbish." Mace and Sarah Jane nodded their assent, although the reporter fixed him with her eyes and handed him her card. "I do expect an interview with her as soon as this matter is cleared."

"I can't speak for her in that regard, I'm afraid," John told her, placing the card in his pocket, "but if I see her again, I'll be sure to let her know." John walked over to Jack, his eyes pleading with him for some information about Martha. "Where is she?" he whispered.

"I've told you. She's safe. That's all you need to know for now." John sensed anger in Jack's tone; he thought that things were alright between them, but looking at him now, he could clearly see that Jack's feelings for Martha were right below the surface. He knew that this Jack wasn't that Jack, and he wondered whether the future held any hope for a friendship between them. He decided to leave it for now in deference to Jack's feelings; nothing good would come of pressing him at this moment, and Martha wasn't going to be safe until this scenario was entirely played out. They had no idea how many people were under Prince's control.

John looked at the soldiers on the ground. They were still breathing, but clearly unconscious. Ianto was checking their vital signs; he looked up at John. "They'll be alright. I'll handle it." John knew that he could trust him, at least in this. Ianto may have lied about the hat, but John knew there was a decency in him that wouldn't allow these young men to be in this state forever, not if there was a way out of it.

Pete was seated at the table. Ross and Jake secured Prince, and Toshiko removed the ring from his finger. She sat in his place at the table, took out her pocket computer, and began to record the exchange between Mace and Pete. They had a lot to sort out; each organization had a vested interest in maintaining a certain public image, and the presence of Sarah Jane Smith made their own record keeping paramount.

At least, that's what they told Sarah Jane, and to an extent they were being honest. What Sarah Jane didn't know was that Toshiko was quietly cleaning up various files for both organizations, ensuring that the trail the reporter followed would proceed no further than she'd already been allowed to travel. Light was good, but too much light too soon could blind them all.

John motioned for Jack to join him on the way out of the café and was surprised when Jake stopped Jack and took his weapon. John walked toward him in protest when Pete looked up at him and said, "Stop. He's not leaving with you. He's coming with us."

"What are you on about?" John cried. "He's not part of this."

"He may not be," Pete replied, "but he's of interest to us for other reasons. We've been hoping to chat with the Captain for quite a while now." John could see the shrewd business man beneath Pete's mild exterior; what was he calculating? "We might even have a position opening up that he'd be perfect for."

Jack looked surprised for a moment, then grinned. "I prefer to be a free agent, really; works out better for everyone if I'm on a freelance basis. I don't like to be tied down." He winked at Ianto as he spoke, and John was surprised to see a hint of a blush in the young man's cheek. Ianto was nothing if not in control of his emotions at all times. But this is Jack, John chuckled to himself. "It's OK, John," Jack said. "I'll be alright and I'll catch up with you later." John was relieved to see a hint of the Jack he used to know. Maybe there was hope for them after all.

As he neared the door, John looked over the tableau once more. Ianto was calling for Torchwood medics to come for the unconscious soldiers, while Pete and Colonel Mace negotiated with Sarah Jane. Jack was flirting with Jake, Ross, and Toshiko. Everything seemed to be just as it ought to. But Martha wasn't here, he didn't know where she was, and he thought it unlikely that he'd see her again. He walked out the door and toward home.


	8. Chapter 8: Tea and Sympathy

At precisely 7 a.m. Simon unlocked the door to John's flat. It was time for the workday to begin, and Simon was never late for work. His boss, on the other hand, was never quite that scrupulous about time; Simon generally started the day for both of them by making tea and sorting out breakfast. Today appeared to be no different.

As he walked toward the kitchen, he noticed a large stack of files placed on the coffee table. He was surprised; they didn't have any cases coming up, and these files looked a bit too official to be part of any project related to Mr. Smith. Simon read the note taped to the top of the stack: _For Dr. Martha Jones, UNIT. Please secure until her arrival._ His face broke into an uncharacteristically large grin. "I guess we're having a visitor today." He placed Mr. Smith's paper on the coffee table, moved the files to the dining area, and then walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

###

Jack had really outdone himself this time. One moment ago she'd been under threat of death from Prince, and now she was seated, on a couch, in a strange flat. She cast her eyes around the room, trying to get her bearings. She knew better than to try to stand right away; travel by manipulator wasn't always the most pleasant experience to begin with, and the fact that she was utterly exhausted wasn't going to make her recovery any quicker.

The couch was firm, but old and threadbare, the burgundy velvet fabric worn and soft. Directly opposite the couch and near one of the room's two windows was an old dark brown leather chair with a small footrest in front of it. A nearby table holding a book, a lamp, and a pair of reading glasses completed the tableau; Martha half-expected the chair's usual occupant to materialize before her eyes and resume reading. The long, low coffee table before her was sturdy, but worn from use. The room, while comfortably furnished, felt haphazardly arranged.

Where was she? Jack had promised her that she'd be safe, and she certainly didn't feel as though she was in danger. She could see a copy of the day's paper on the table, and was relieved to find that she was where and when she expected to be. "Good, London then," she thought, pleased that he had hidden her in the city. She might have to hide out here for a while; even if things worked perfectly, she wouldn't be safe until they'd found all perpetrators and victims of Prince's plan. She heard a noise coming from a room behind her and froze; did Jack know the flat was occupied? Who lived here?

She heard footsteps approaching the room, then a gasp and a timid voice spoke. "Um, sorry, didn't hear you come in. Thought the door was locked. How can I help you?"A hand appeared to her left; she grasped it as she turned.

The young man before her couldn't be older than 20 and he looked harmless enough.

"I'm Martha Jones. And you are?"

"Oh, Dr. Jones. I'm Simon. We're expecting you. I've put your files on the table."

"My files?" Martha asked, then saw the stack of UNIT documents on the dining table behind Simon.

"Mr. Smith doesn't appear to be in at the moment; I'm sure he'll be returning shortly. Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

"Tea would be lovely," Martha replied. Simon went to the kitchen. Mr. Smith? Simon—John had mentioned a Simon earlier. "This must be John's flat," Martha thought and then smiled. Jack thought this was the safest place for her to be. What did he know that she didn't?

Her eyes continued to survey the room. To her right was the door into the flat and to the right of that was the beginning of a series of bookcases that lined the remaining walls. The cases were filled with books, papers, and various pieces of machinery. Behind the couch was a dining table surrounded by several mismatched chairs. The table held her files, a laptop computer, and assorted bits of metal and tools. Beyond the table were two doors, one leading down a narrow hallway, the other leading to what appeared to be the kitchen.

She felt a bit more oriented, and when Simon returned with the tea tray, she asked to be shown to the bathroom. He led her down the dark hallway, past a room filled with more shelves, books, and projects, and to the bathroom. Martha wanted nothing more than a long soak in the tub, but was happy to settle for a splash of cool water from the tap. She patted her face dry with a towel, then closed the toilet cover, sat on it, and closed her eyes.

The conversation with Mace had been bad enough—he was not willing to listen to her accusations against Prince without gaining admittance from her that she was involved in the project. She couldn't entirely blame him; he'd really gone to bat for her when she'd insisted the project be shut down initially, and he took the evidence of her involvement as a breach of the trust he'd had in her. He'd dismissed the bombing of her apartment as coincidental at best; the evidence, he'd insisted, pointed to a problem in the boiler room, and the explosion had been deemed an accident.

When Prince arrived, Martha's anxiety had increased tenfold. She was doing her best to maintain her calm and to control her part of the conversation; she knew that John had made arrangements for a reporter to be in attendance. Prince's appearance made that job more difficult, and when he took her arm, she knew she'd have to use the escape valve Jack had given her. Almost immediately she'd felt Prince pushing at her mind. She tried to free her arm—she didn't want to teleport him along with her—while simultaneously blocking him from her thoughts.

Martha shuddered as she remembered the experience. His pushing felt like hard blows to her consciousness, and the walls she'd hastily constructed were beginning to buckle under the pressure. She remembered mentally screaming for him to let go while trying to break free of his grasp. She'd finally extricated her arm as the once-silent scream was heard throughout the café, and in that instant she'd pressed the button on the wrist strap she was holding under the table.

She heard a gentle knock on the door and looked up. "Yes?" she called, trying to sound normal. Her cheeks felt wet, and she realized that she'd been crying. She'd done far too much of that today.

"Just checking to see if you needed anything, Miss," came Simon's voice through the door. "Sorry to bother you."

"No, it's alright," Martha called. "I'll be out in a minute." She stood and splashed a bit more cool water on her face, and dried it off. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she realized that the hallway wasn't naturally dark; the walls were like a blackboard and were covered with mathematical formulas, maps, poetry, and charts. She imagined John in spectacles, scribbling on his walls; would his tongue peek out from the side of his mouth as he concentrated?

Martha returned to the living room. Simon had cleared a space on the table for the tea things. She noticed that in addition to tea, he'd set out toast, butter, and boiled eggs. "This looks lovely," she said, "and I'm sorry to have kept you waiting." She smiled at the young man before her. He offered her a chair, then pushed it toward the table. He reached for the teapot, but Martha put out a hand to stop him. "Really, it's alright. I can get it. Why don't you join me?" Compared to the events of the last few hours, this was such a normal exchange it was a bit surreal. Simon sat down, then immediately got up, picked up an item from the couch, and returned to his seat. He placed the wrist strap on the table next to her.

"You left this on the couch," he said, then set about pouring the tea. "I'm sure you're feeling a bit hungry and weak." He stopped pouring and handed Martha her mug. The liquid was clear.

"I'm not certain I'm familiar with this tea," Martha said. Simon looked at the liquid he was pouring into his own mug. A blush crept over his fair skin and he closed his eyes tightly. "Forgot the tea," he muttered, "I always forget the tea." He looked at her apologetically and went to the kitchen. He returned with a few tea bags and offered one to Martha. "I'm sorry," he said, "but sometimes I forget the order of things."

Martha felt a compassionate curiosity about this young man, but she was more concerned with what he knew about the wrist strap. She pointed to it and asked "do you know what this is?"

Simon nodded. "It's a Vortex Manipulator."

"So you're a Time Agent? You look a bit young to be one." Martha took a slice of toast and buttered it, then reached for an egg. It was cold to the touch, so she put it back on the plate. Toast would do for now; perhaps later she'd take the egg into the kitchen to cook it.

"No, Miss, not a Time Agent. They just aren't that unusual to see, where I'm from." She could tell that he was a bit uncomfortable discussing it, so she decided to change the subject.

"So, you work with Mr. Smith, yeah? What kinds of things do you do with him?"

"Oh, whatever needs doing. I build things, help him with his projects and investigations."

"Any interesting projects on the horizon?" Martha helped herself to another piece of toast. "What's this," she asked, pointing to a metal rod with wires protruding from the handle.

"That's his latest project—it's a prototype for a laser spanner. He's having trouble getting the parts for it, though—he's having to build them himself." Simon pointed toward a mess of tiny circuits and tubes, a soldering tool, and a pair of jeweler's glasses.

"Sounds like he's pretty smart," Martha said. "You must be pretty smart, too, then, if he's hired you." Martha liked this young man; he seemed very open and kind, if a bit overly formal and odd. She added, "and please, call me Martha."

"Thanks Miss—Martha," he corrected himself, blushing a bit. He wasn't used to being around anyone other than Mr. Smith and the only beautiful woman he was comfortable around was his mother. "Can I get you anything else? I don't know where Mr. Smith is; it's not like him to keep a client waiting." Simon's face clearly projected the nervousness he felt about John's whereabouts.

"Oh," Martha corrected him, "I'm not a client. I'm a friend; well, we met earlier this evening. He's off on a—" Martha thought of what to say that wouldn't worry the young man, "—an errand and I'm to wait for him to return here. Is that alright? Will I be in the way?"

Simon knew that she was keeping something from him—the wrist strap was ample evidence that more than a simple errand was involved—but he trusted that she had her reasons for keeping secrets. He was worried, though, about his boss; Mr. Smith had a habit of recklessness that always worried him, and Simon hoped that wherever he was, he was surrounded by allies who could help keep him from doing something fatal.

"No," he replied, "you won't be in the way at all. Do you mind if I go into the workshop, though? There are a few things I should get to there."

"Not at all. I think I'll look around for something to read." She prepared another cup of tea for herself, then rose and began to scan the shelves. Simon returned the tea items to the kitchen and then went into the workshop.

Twenty minutes later, Martha was feeling bleary-eyed; reading wasn't keeping her awake, and she wanted to be alert when John returned. She was also feeling a bit hungry. She walked to the workshop and knocked on the door. "Simon, could you show me where a few things are in the kitchen," she asked. "I'd like to make something for John; he's sure to be ravenous when he gets back."

###

John walked the three flights of stairs to his flat. He didn't think it was possible to be more exhausted, but the long walk home had done it; he couldn't imagine moving another inch. When he reached his door, he leaned against the frame for a moment. The light bulb in the hallway was on the fritz again and all was dark. He remembered opening the TARDIS door and how it glowed to welcome him, no matter where he'd been or what he'd been through. Never really alone, not like this. Less than 24 hours ago he'd been alone and had been fine; why did it hurt so much now?

He fished out his keys and put them in the lock. As he opened the door, he could hear the whistle of the kettle and could smell freshly baked pastries, which brought a small smile to his lips. Not entirely alone. Simon must be feeling particularly flush this morning, he thought, and he stepped inside, took off his coat, and hung it on the rack. At least he was going to get paid, with extra for the "combative nature" of this assignment. "You're in a right good mood today," he called out. "Hope you followed the recipe to the letter this time; would hate to be missing something vital, like the baking powder."

"If there's one thing I can do without a recipe," said a voice that was clearly not Simon's, "it's make a decent scone. You hungry?" Martha Jones was leaning against the door frame, a towel wrapped round her waist to serve as impromptu apron.

He stood there, slack-jawed for a moment, then regained his power to speak. "How did you get here?"

She pointed to the manipulator on the table. "Jack thought this was the safest place for me to be," she said, her tone tentative. "Was he right?"

John nodded, a lump forming in his throat as he considered the gift that Jack had given him.

"How is he? Where is he?"

"He's alright—he's not hurt. He's in Torchwood custody for a bit, but I believe Pete just wants to find out what he's been mucking about with, how much he knows, and then he'll let him go." She didn't look entirely convinced. "He went willingly; I think he's intrigued by the work they do." He looked down at his right hand which was plucking at a loose seam on the old couch. "He loves you."

"I know," Martha's voice was soft. "And he knows that I don't love him, not that way." John's eyes met hers. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head. "No. Not that. Not now." John nodded. "Tea, then? I think we've earned a cup, don't you? Besides, can't let these scones go to waste. You sit down and I'll bring it out."

John sat on the couch, removed his shoes, and sat cross-legged with his feet tucked under him. On the coffee table he could see several books; Martha must have explored his shelves while waiting. Only one was open—Homer's _Odyssey_—and he chuckled a bit at the thought of that ancient journey home. All of those adventures, but in the end, home was the place to be.

"Never really read it properly," she said as she realized what he was holding. She was carrying a tray with the tea things and indicated with her head that he should make room on the coffee table for it. John stacked the books and moved them to the floor. Martha put the tray on the table, then sat on the chair opposite John. They each prepared their tea. The scones were delicious; she'd found his secret stash of currants and used the last of the butter, but that was alright by him. If he needed that indulgence on any day…

"It's quite good," he said, then added when he read the question on her brow, "the book. And the scone. And the tea," he added nervously. Martha smiled at him. "They're all quite good. Thank you."

"You're welcome," she replied. "I've always wanted to read it, and I guess now, given my current situation, I sort of feel adrift."

"Where are you going to go?" he asked, knowing that she had family and friends to help her, but thrilled that the first home she'd entered, since hers had been destroyed, was his. Was that wrong?

"I don't know. Mum's, I suppose. She's on her own, so it's easier. I can sleep in my old room." Her breath caught, and John could see that the realization of her loss was threatening to overwhelm her. He patted the open spot on the couch, and she came over to sit with him. He put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her close to his side, and held her while she cried. After a few moments, she stopped, and wiped her eyes. "I'd rather not think about it right this moment," she said. "I'm sick of crying. Can we talk about something else? Tell me a story?"

In her eyes he could see that she'd reached her limit of reality for the moment, and he really couldn't blame her. In one day she'd had her entire life altered so dramatically that she was starting over again—back to her parental home, no employment on the horizon, and a need to rethink her life plans. He'd had more than his share of similar days, and he admired her ability to recognize the need for an escape. John thought about the soldiers he'd disabled, ashamed that he hadn't thought about them until now, and he hoped that they would be alright. He made a mental note to check with Ianto the next time they spoke.

He took the liberty of kissing the top of her head as he reached down to the stack of books on the floor. "I'd rather not think about my stories right now, either, I'm afraid. How about I read you one instead? I think these are far enough away from our lives to do us little harm." He opened the book, pulled her closer, and with Homer's help invoked the muse.

When Simon came out of the workshop for lunch, he found them on the couch. The book had fallen from John's hands onto the floor, and John and Martha were stretched out on the couch, sleeping in each other's arms. He went to John's bedroom, took the blanket from the bed, and covered them with it before letting himself out of the flat.


	9. Chapter 9: Waking

When he looked back on this day, John wanted to be able to say that it was the most restful sleep he'd ever had. How much better could things be? He'd had an adventure, met (again) this beautiful, intelligent woman, and was now waking up with her in his arms, in his—well, on his couch, but that was a technicality. Were they under his blanket? "Simon," John thought, and then he wondered whether his young assistant was still in the flat.

He wanted to say the sleep was restful, but John ached all over. Every muscle felt as though it had been stretched through a machine, and his chest hurt from the impact after the explosion. Martha, even in sleep, had tried not to hurt him; she was nestled against him in the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder, and her left arm draped lightly over his torso above the site of his injury. He could smell a faint scent of her shampoo—coconut, which was unusual, but nice—and his hand made lazy circles along her arm as he lay there wondering what to do next.

He was thrilled that she was here, but mornings after weren't exactly in his repertoire. He—the Doctor, that is—wasn't one to stick around after the danger was passed, and when he picked up a companion, there was always another adventure waiting round the corner. Adventure was a comfortable routine, and while John had spent three years settling into a slower sort of life, this was one part that he hadn't quite sorted out yet. What came next?

He was also pretty sure that Martha wouldn't really be up for much adventure, anyway. She seemed to have got her fill of time travel from her time with Jack—the irony of that fact didn't escape John's attention—and it was as if he were catching her after the year that never was, except it was several years that had happened, and he sensed that she'd seen awful things and done tremendous ones. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her and he was terrified that he wouldn't get the chance to find out all the answers.

She would have questions too, and those would be difficult to avoid—

Martha began to move against him, and he pulled her a bit closer. "Good morning Martha," he murmured as he pressed his lips to her hair.

"Mmm. Is it really morning already?" Martha mumbled, the arm she was resting across his torso tightening just a bit to pull him closer.

"Well," he looked out at the dark sky, the outside scenery only illuminated by the street lamps, "somewhere in the world—the Kamchatka Peninsula, for example—the sun is rising and a new day dawns. Some fisherman is out on his boat, a miner is down the mineshaft and their wives are probably already back in bed, trying to warm up after making breakfast." He paused to consider the implications of his statement, then continued, "Perhaps it works the other way round. What would you rather be? The miner or the wife?" Martha raised her head and a sleepy, but arched, eyebrow. John smiled weakly and nodded. He needed to work on his pillow talk. "Right. Perhaps neither would be good in that scenario. A bit too cold." Martha rolled her eyes, then moved her head to kiss his cheek. John turned his head ever so slightly and when her lips made contact, they met his.

_This is the way to wake up_, thought Martha, _but this is not like me_. As the kiss intensified and John's hands began roaming her body (_How long has it been_, he thought, _since I've been this close?_), she fought against her own desire. _I barely know him, I don't want-but, oh, his lips are soft—_.

They wrestled in that way new lovers wrestle. Lips and tongues exchanged wordless challenges. Hands negotiated control, and set limits on satiety. Hips shifted, while legs refereed the game, and minds tried to give bodies over to enjoying just being together. As togetherness grew in intensity, though, John thought the words that Martha eventually uttered.

"I think we should stop," she groaned and reluctantly pushed away from him.

Disappointed-but-relieved, he stuttered. "Yes, of course, um, we should." He looked at her—her eyes were sleepy but alive, her lips so soft and tempting, and she was so close—and swallowed hard. "But Martha," he said, a playful smile growing on his lips, "that was _nice._" His emphasis on the last word told Martha that his mind was imagining not-so-nice things, and she impulsively tweaked a nipple through his shirt. John's face broke into a goofy grin and Martha felt as giddy as he looked. It _was_ nice, and she allowed herself to hope for much, much more. But later, after they'd had time to get to know each other better.

"I'll put the kettle on." John rose and walked toward the kitchen while Martha started folding the blanket. "And I suppose we should start thinking about supper; remember—you can't call home until we get the all clear from Torchwood."

"You should really be resting," Martha said, wincing as she remembered the pressure she'd placed on his chest while they were kissing earlier. She hoped she hadn't hurt him. "Why don't you let me get that?"

"Oh, no—really, I want to be moving about. Need a good stretch. Besides," he poked his head out the kitchen doorway, "you've done some wizard work in here already today; it's my turn now." He ducked back into the kitchen, and Martha could hear a near-frantic opening of cabinet doors as he searched the cupboards to see what was viable for supper.

"Don't put yourself out," she called, remembering what she'd seen in the kitchen earlier that morning. "Just soup and sandwich would be fine." She finished folding the blanket and placed it on the arm of the sofa. The books she'd taken out earlier were still stacked up on the floor, so she began to put them back onto the shelves. She left out Homer—she might read more later— and then checked the contents of her bag. Since she'd met Jack, she'd always carried a small kit of essentials—toothpaste, clean knickers, and the like—so that she'd never be caught entirely without modern comforts. She wondered when they'd be able to leave the flat, when they'd get the word that all was safe—and when she'd get to bathe. "John?" she asked, and he poked his head out of the kitchen again.

"Yes?"

"May I use your shower? And," she looked a bit shy as she continued, "borrow something to wear?"

An image of her in one of his shirts, the sleeves rolled up just so, shirttails resting against the skin of her legs, shot through him and for a moment he was speechless. He quickly regained his composure, though, and managed to eek out a "yes, you can use it" and "let me see what I can find." He wandered into the bedroom and a few minutes later came out with towels, a pair of flannel shorts, a flannel shirt, and socks. "Will these do?" he asked, and Martha gladly accepted the pile of linens and clothing. He showed her to the bathroom, briefly introduced her to the mysteries of his "enhanced" shower faucets, and returned to the kitchen.

A few moments after he'd identified a suitable tin of soup, and ascertained that there were, indeed, tomatoes, cheese, and bread for sandwiches, the phone rang. Martha was still in the shower, and he hoped that there would be good news on the other end so that she wouldn't have to make a run for it while wet.

He heard Jack's voice on the line and they exchanged greetings and pre-arranged passwords, an old, but still effective means of starting a secure conversation. Jack assured him that the phone line was safe—Torchwood had taken control of it as soon as Jack revealed Martha's location to Pete—and had positioned several operatives (discreetly, Jack assured him) to watch the premises.

"How's our girl?" Jack's voice was a bit less jovial, a bit less brave. "She arrive OK?"

"Yes, she's fine. Well, as well as can be expected given—you know." John scratched the back of his neck. "Thank you for sending her here."

"Don't mention it."

John was grateful that Jack's reply, while clipped, was not hostile. "How long will she need to be here? I mean, not that I want her to leave—"

"Another day or two, we think, then we can move her to a safe house if there's still danger. Do you need anything? We can have Simon bring in whatever you need in the morning."

John thought it odd that Jack was so comfortably referring to Torchwood, as if he were an active working part of the organization with a long established history. He pushed that thought aside, though, at the mention of his assistant's name. "No, not Simon—I don't want him involved in this. He could get hurt, Jack, and I can't let that happen to him. Ask Ianto and Pete—they know."

Jack laughed. "Don't worry about Simon. He's already been briefed and, really, he's perfect to do this. We're watching you all. It'll be OK. What do you need?"

"Martha will need some clothes. And her mum—can she call her mum or any of her family? I know she's going to be worried about them."

"Yes, she can, but only on their land line—mobiles are forbidden, understand?—and she shouldn't let the phone call go longer than 3 minutes. We're watching them, and they're alright at the moment, but until we round up all of the study subjects, we can't be too careful." Jack's voice lowered a bit, and John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand as he spoke. "I don't want to alarm Martha, but it's possible that Prince may not have been working alone."

John felt a cold stone lodge in the pit of his stomach. "Who do you suspect?"

"No names yet, but UNIT is being very helpful; your reporter friend has got that colonel wrapped around her finger." Jack chuckled softly. "She seems very keen to protect Martha's reputation, and Mace doesn't want to be thrown under the bus while she does it. He's proven quite cooperative."

John was not surprised that Sarah Jane instinctively wanted to protect Martha; he suspected they would find in one another a strong kinship. Jack's news troubled him, though. Martha might still be in danger, and his flat was only safe as long as her presence here was unknown. How would he be able to protect her? "Jack, the operatives watching us, are they armed?"

"Yes, they are, and before you say anything—"

John cut him off. "No, don't worry. I'm glad they're prepared. I just hope they don't need to have been, in the end." Different world, different man, different set of rules. "How are those UNIT soldiers?"

"They're stable. The medics are working on them, and Ianto seems hopeful they'll come out of it with time."

John was relieved. He had enough death on his hands. "So, what do we do next?"

"Sit tight and wait for news. Simon will bring supplies tomorrow morning." Jack's voice softened, "may I speak to her?"

John heard no sound coming from the bathroom, so he put his hand over the mouthpiece and called out to her. "Martha? Can you come to the phone? It's Jack."

The bathroom door cracked open and Martha stepped out. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and she was pushing up the long sleeves on John's flannel nightshirt. He handed the phone to her, then moved to the kitchen to give her some privacy. He also needed to get control of his hormones; he was glad Jack had asked to speak to her because the sight of her walking down the hall wrapped in his clothing was pulling his mind and body back to their earlier wrestling on the couch. He was surprised at how quickly his urge to touch her had grown; surely it was fueled by his friendship with the other Martha, but he'd never felt such strong physical attraction to her as he was now. That urge coupled with his growing need to protect her, in whatever way was necessary, simultaneously unnerved and emboldened him.

"You OK?" From the kitchen doorway, Martha surveyed him with a curious eye. John realized that several minutes had passed, and that he was gripping the sink ledge tightly. "I gave Jack a good scolding; it was hardly fair of him to saddle you with me this way." Her tone was playful, but he could see the genuine concern in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I know that by sending me here, he's probably put you in more danger." Her arms were hanging at her sides, and though she was older than the Doctor's Martha had been—how old was she, he wondered? 30?—she looked like a young girl wearing her father's clothes.

John crossed over to her and began to gently fold back the sleeves of the flannel shirt. When he was finished, he held her hands, his slim fingers stroking circles on her delicate wrists. He kissed the top of her head, then lifted her chin so that he could look into her eyes as he spoke.

"Martha, I've learned that you should never feel guilty for following your instincts and doing what's right. Besides, as consequences go, this isn't so bad." He smiled at the questioning look on her face. "Can't remember when I was actually in an adventure that required I stay at home in order to survive!" After a moment, she laughed with him and he pulled her into a hug. It felt good to comfort her.

After a moment, he reluctantly pulled away from her. The scent of soap and shampoo on her reminded him that he must smell pretty rank to her about now. If the other Martha had rejected Shakespeare for bad breath- "Right. Shower. Think you can hold out a bit longer before supper?"

"No problem. Let me just collect my things from the bathroom?" John nodded, and Martha wandered off while he finished gathering the items to prepare their meal. He put the kettle on—she might like a cup while she waited—and went back to his room to fetch his dressing gown. When he came out, she was standing before his thinking wall. He was a bit embarrassed.

"Kind of a silly way to decorate," he mumbled and rolled his eyes nervously, but Martha surprised him.

"I quite like it. Good use of space. Most people hang portraits or pictures of fruit on theirs. This seems much more productive." She grinned playfully at him. "Did this wall help you plan that articulating 360° shower head?"

He paled; he hadn't shown her the full measure of the shower's capabilities for fear she'd think he was a bit pervy. "A little, yes."

"Well, then, you'll have to tell me all about what you've got planned next. We've got a couple of days with nothing to do." She winked at him, and he blushed before ducking into the bathroom. Cold shower then.

###

Martha had been surprised when the kettle had whistled, but she was glad that John had thought to put it on. She was seated at the table with her files and a hot cup of tea before her. Most of the files were familiar—Jack had gathered all of her research records from her UNIT office—but two were unknown to her and these commanded her attention.

The first was a red folder that appeared to be her paper personnel record. When she'd opened it, she found the typical items enclosed: her CV, her application for security clearances, official UNIT photographs, intake medical records and the like. There were also, though, some surveillance reports that indicated UNIT had been keeping a close watch on her movements before they'd contacted her. The surveillance had started, in fact, long before Adeola's death; the file read like a record of her travels with Jack, a collection of photographs and drawings and descriptions of the two of them as they'd appeared in humanity's past. She felt anger with UNIT, then herself, welling up inside; they'd been watching her all along, they'd known about her travels. Had she and Jack had more of an impact on the past than she'd thought?

The second folder was green and was entirely unconnected to her. It was the record of the day the Cybermen tried to take control of London. The folder was thick with reports and military forms, but in a pocket on the inside cover she found a DVD labeled "Cybus Command Footage." Her heartbeat quickened as she drew it from the case. John's laptop was nearby—surely he wouldn't mind; she had to see—and she popped the disk into the tray and watched the footage.

The image was grainy and flickered a bit, but she could see that she was looking into a sort of command room, with banks of monitors and computers. She winced at the images of the Cybermen and their metallic voices sent chills down her spine. Perhaps she should wait for John to return from his shower; watching this alone might be more than she could bear, the memories of Adeola and of that night in the hospital rushing to the surface. Then she gasped, transfixed as she saw Pete Tyler and a young blonde woman (where had she seen her before?), come into view on the screen. She'd trusted in John that Pete Tyler and Torchwood were OK to bring into this situation, but she felt a growing fear in the pit of her stomach as she saw the two familiar faces on the screen. Could Pete have been involved with Prince?

Her fears were not allayed as she watched the rest of the footage. It was choppy, but after a moment another person was ushered into the room and she couldn't breathe. It was John, her John, and he was there, in a tuxedo, swaggering and boasting. He spoke to Pete and the girl with familiarity, which didn't entirely surprise, but then Pete said something about his wife Jackie being killed (but she was alive; Martha had just seen her interviewed on _Wake Up Britain_ the week before regarding a charity event for an animal rescue), and then a door opened and she could hear the metallic voice of another Cyberman engaging John in conversation. She watched the entire scene unfold—John's statements were sometimes directed at the Cyberman (was it Lumic?) and sometimes directly to the screen, as if he were speaking to someone through the camera. Suddenly he slammed a mobile onto the console and the Cybermen started screaming and clutching their heads.

Martha remembered the stories she'd been told by some of the UNIT soldiers who'd been at the scene afterward; the corpses of some of the Cybermen had been found headless. The rumor was that whoever defeated Lumic had killed the Cybermen by literally turning their minds against them. While she was ultimately glad that Lumic had been defeated, her own experience had made her sympathetic to those who had been converted.

"What did John do?" she whispered in her fear and shock.

"I made them aware of who, of what, they were. It was the only way to stop Lumic."

She started when she heard his voice. He looked so different now. He was fresh from the shower, wearing a pair of flannel pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He was drying his wet hair with a towel he'd draped around his neck. He was all limbs and angles and tousled softness, so unlike the man in the video who seemed a contradiction of hard-edged impishness.

Her heart was racing. He was right next to her, standing over her as she stopped the video playback. A screen had fallen over his face, and he looked more like the man in that long-ago control room now, like the man he'd become in the pub when Jack had arrived. A flurry of conflicting thoughts raced through Martha's mind, and she mustered up her courage. She'd faced down worse than this, she thought. Jack had trusted him (which might not be the strongest mark in his favor), but, then again, so had she, and John hadn't proven her wrong yet. Still, she pushed her chair away from the table, simultaneously creating some distance between them. So many questions—why had he done it? what had happened? how had Pete Tyler been involved?—but only one came to her lips.

"Who," she asked, her eyes never leaving his now cold ones, "is the Doctor?"


	10. Chapter 10: You And I Are

John rinsed the soap from his hair and enjoyed the feeling of the water spray as it massaged his aching muscles. The shower had been a great idea; it was rejuvenating him, but he was still acutely aware of the physical pain he'd experienced the night before.

"Worth it though," he murmured. He was exhausted, but felt so alive, so filled with hope and newness. He'd met her, saved her, kissed her, woken with her. She was here, he wasn't alone, she'd be with him for a little while, at least, and oh, she looked so good in those pajamas.

He turned the hot water off again and let the sharp, cold needles calm him.

He dried off and brushed his teeth, then went down the hall to his bedroom. He could hear the faint sound of voices coming from the front room; Martha must have decided to use his computer. After he dressed, he quickly surveyed the bedroom and tidied it a bit. He planned to offer Martha the use of it while she was with him—he would (reluctantly) offer to sleep on the couch—and he didn't want her to think he was a slob.

Room in satisfactory condition, he walked down the hallway. She was watching something, and the sound of it was familiar to him. He stopped near the end of the hall when he realized what it was.

Suddenly, he was transported back there, back to being Him, back to that awful situation that ultimately started this whole mess he was in. He could feel the cold logic of the Time Lord creeping into his mind, but he fought it. Martha was watching this, Martha who had been so affected by Lumic's technology that she'd made it her personal mission to free people's minds.

Martha was watching him do all the things the Doctor had done in that room.

She was seated at the table with her back to the hall doorway. He walked to the table and stood behind her as he dried his hair. He could see the Doctor guiding Mickey with his cruel taunt (why did he insist on calling him an idiot?), so arrogant in his tone (but hadn't he been so sanctimonious already today himself?), and then, when he and Martha watched the Doctor slam the mobile into the console, breaking the inhibitor chip, he realized that he'd have to explain about everything now, much sooner than he'd wanted to, and that she'd likely never want to see him again once she knew.

Why had Jack sent her here?

He answered the question she hadn't whispered to him, his voice as quiet and cold as His would be when justifying His actions. "I made them aware of who, of what, they were. It was the only way to stop Lumic."

She was confused and anxious, and he wanted to let the Time Lord take control, to hide behind the Doctor's otherworldly persona. It would be easier to let her see that coldness, to cut her off now before she got too close. If she got too close, she would learn who he was and she would leave him. She'd left Jack for lesser crimes than His.

John's heart beat wildly, and he'd convinced himself this was the thing to do as she pushed herself from the table, from him—she was afraid of him. But then she asked her question, and it wasn't the one he expected.

"Who is the Doctor?"

He was about to speak when he saw the courage in her face. She was steeling herself, arming herself against what she feared, and he needed her to not be afraid of him so that he could keep her safe, so that he could keep her. He pushed the Time Lord away. He sat at the table next to her—she still held herself away from him—and rewound the video until he could stop on a clear image of the Doctor's face. He turned himself to face Martha and reached out his hands, offering them to her. She reluctantly put her hands in his, and he squeezed them just a bit before speaking.

"The Doctor is who I used to be, who I was, before I was born. I'm going to have to explain that—" Martha's face clearly indicated that she was incredulous "—but not now. One thing at a time, I think, and I need you to understand this story first. That man there, that was me when the Cybermen were made. Will you let me tell you my story of that day?"

The last thing Martha wanted was to dwell in any memories of that day, but she couldn't turn away from the pleading in his eyes, which were no longer cold, no longer hidden behind an impenetrable wall. She nodded her assent.

So he told her about the party at the Tyler mansion, and the appearance of the Cybermen. He explained the function of the emotional inhibitor and how they had to disable it so that the converted would be disoriented enough to know what had happened to them. He told her about Mrs. Moore, and the Preachers, and how brave and smart Mickey and Jake were, and how they all swung from a moving zeppelin to escape the burning factory. His eyes teared up when he spoke of the girl he met, the bride-to-be, and he cried when remembered how the converted had screamed as they discovered who they'd become. The Doctor had been sorry for their pain; John could now imagine the horror of waking to that transformation when faced with only one life.

They'd been sitting for nearly an hour now. Martha's tea was stone cold and her hands hurt—John hadn't let them go as he told her the story, and she hadn't wanted him to. She could feel him drawing strength from her as he unburdened himself, and when he told her about the bride, she'd wept as she remembered Adeola. When he broke down at the end of his tale, she closed the laptop screen. Whoever the Doctor was, she saw him as an unwelcome intruder now. She stood and held him, his arms at her waist, his face against her belly. She leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

When he'd calmed, she went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. The tin of soup was still on the counter and she decided that they needed to eat something. The night had already been long. They'd need sustenance.

"John? Do you feel alright to help me? We should get our supper ready." Moments later he entered the kitchen. His eyes asked her to accept him, to forgive him for what he had done. She crossed over to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

Their mood was still somber after supper. John was in the kitchen opening a bottle of wine. This was not, he thought, what he'd hoped for a first date. "But when does anything go the way I want it to," he quietly moaned, and he had to laugh for a moment at his own emotional outburst. He brought the bottle and two glasses out, and met Martha, who was seated on the couch.

"So, what else would you like to know?" he asked as he poured. "I'm sure you have about 10 billion questions running through your mind right now." He handed her a glass, her fingers lingering a few moments too long on his as she took it from him. He got a mental glimpse of her, in a hospital, and as she withdrew from him, he began to wonder if she might have something she wanted to tell him. "Is there anything," he cautiously asked, "that you want to share?"

Martha blinked as she sipped her wine. Could she speak those words? She'd told only her therapist about the horrors she'd seen in the hospital that day—her UNIT commanders had insisted she have a full psychiatric workup before she began her job there—but she wanted to share it with him, wanted him to understand how she'd been affected. Jack had tried to take it from her, to force her (though he thought he was doing her a kindness) to share, so she'd refused him time and time again. She didn't want to put that distance between herself and John.

She took another drink and began to tell him about the horrors of that night. As she spoke, she let him enfold her in his arms; it was almost as if he were shielding her from the mounting horrors while she described the scene in the hospital when she'd moved from one unsavable person to another. As her narrative closed in on Adeola, she paused, then put her wine glass and John's on the coffee table. She sat sideways on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her; he followed suit, facing her. He wondered what she wanted from him.

"Can I show you?" Her voice was small, and he wondered how much worse things must be if she couldn't articulate it. He nodded and she started to take his hands in hers, but he shook his head. He placed his hands at her temples.

"Remember to close off anything you don't want me to see." She nodded and closed her eyes.

_He was walking down the hospital corridor, surrounded by bustling doctors and nurses, and gurneys filled with bodies of flesh and metal. He was terrified; he wasn't trained enough for this, he didn't know what to do. He couldn't save any of them and everywhere he looked was death and pain and horror. Would any of them survive? The smell was overwhelming_—Martha's memories were impossibly strong—_and he could feel his fear mounting as he reached the end of the hallway. It was the last one, it was covered, and his hand pulled back the cover_—

_He was at a graveside, flowers in his hand. Adeola's grave, and he was still, after all these years, grieving her loss. He promised her that he'd keep working, that it wouldn't happen again, but he feared he might fail her_—

_He was on a street_—it was disorienting to be in Martha's memories, and he communicated that to her.

_What's happening? Why are we shifting?_

_Jack brought me here._

John was drawn into a complex web of emotions as he experienced her memory; Martha's anger with Jack for taking her there was palpable, and he wanted to give in to it as his own anger at him welled up inside. But there was joy there, too, at seeing her beloved cousin, and the pain of the reopened wound of her loss. These emotions, though, paled in comparison to what was to come. He saw the reaper appear and knew what choice she had been forced to make, what she'd had to do before he experienced her doing it.

_No one knows but you. _

He could feel how alone she was in this memory.

_You're not alone anymore._

He broke the link. His slender fingers wiped the tears from Martha's cheeks as she closed her eyes and rested her head in his hands. After a few moments, he realized that her hand was wiping away his tears and she was tentatively brushing against his mind.

_May I?_

_What do you want to see?_

_Can you show me who—no, what—you are? _

He considered what to show her.

_She was laughing with Simon, rumpling his hair as they cleaned up a failed attempt at cake baking. She was running and the wind felt cool and bracing on her skin. She was drinking a coffee outside a café, watching people wandering by on the street, and wondering how they lived their lives and if they were happy. She was painting the hallway and buying furniture at secondhand stores and feeling like she was building a real life. She was standing on a beach and the wind blew and a blue box wheezed and disappeared. _

She wasn't hurt by Rose's rejection or the Doctor's condemnation or Donna's abandonment. She wasn't weeping in her bed, comforted by Jackie. She wasn't tempted continually by the artifacts Torchwood collected. She wasn't sitting in the leather chair, reading with no one to share the stories with. He didn't want to share the pain with her, not yet. She'd hurt enough tonight. But he couldn't resist—

_She gasped when she found herself walking on a red grassed plain, the sky above her head glowing deep, dark orange, a glistening city encased in a glass dome in the distance. _  
_Your home?_

_It was._

_And now?_

_It's gone._

_What do you mean, gone?_

_Just gone._

_Is that why you're here?_

"I can't—" His voice broke the stillness of the room, the strangled cry pushing forth from him. They sat in silence for a moment, hands in their laps. Martha thought back to their talk in the pub—"something significant," she'd thought—and she knew what she wanted and why.

Taking his hand in hers, Martha rose from the couch and led him to the hallway.

"Where do you keep the chalk?" she asked. He walked to the office and brought her back a box of multiple sticks, all different hues. She smiled—he loved to see her smile, and this smile pierced his melancholy—and selected a blue one. She found an open piece of wall and wrote the previous day's date on it, then

_I met you today. You saved me with a kiss._

Beneath it, she wrote the current date, then

_Today I made love to you for the first time._

John had to squint a bit to read what she'd written—her handwriting was small and the lighting in the hallway wasn't the best, especially at night—but when he made it out, his eyebrows surged toward his hairline. He wondered at the barely suppressed smirk on her face and swallowed hard.

"Can't let Simon see that," he babbled nervously, "being such a young innocent, and do you really mean that you want to—I mean we've only just met and there's so much you don't know about me—" She grabbed his t-shirt and pulled him down to kiss her, dragging him backward toward what she assumed was the bedroom. By the time they reached the door, he'd steadied himself to her purpose, and he pressed her up against the door frame as he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. His hands were tight on her hips while hers moved gingerly up his injured chest before wrapping around his neck. He felt a surge of adrenaline pulse through him as he lifted her, carrying her the way he'd done in that hospital on the moon.

"John, you're injured! You shouldn't—" He silenced her with his mouth as he carried her over to the bed. When he reached it, he sat and held her on his lap while he continued kissing her.

He tasted the wine first, a smooth, earthy richness that filled his senses with woods and flowers and spiced evenings of waiting for just the right time. Then there was the cream, her addition to the tin of soup, which had made it bolder, deeper, and infinitely more interesting than its humble origins would suggest. He feasted on her kisses, realizing how greatly he'd been starving these last years.

Martha held his head in her hands as she reciprocated. Their minds were open. She'd forgot, he'd forgot, and they heard each other's thoughts.

_Oak casks, honeyed roses, gorging, blush cream, starving_

_Don't want to hurt him, how can we maneuver, want him inside, oh so soft his lips_

_Skin, smooth, satin, so long, too long_

He began to ply the buttons on the flannel shirt (_my shirt, your skin_) while he kissed his way down her neck, then followed the trail of skin his fingers exposed. Martha's breath labored (_tongue is fire_) as her hands slid beneath his t-shirt, seeking the nipple she'd so smartly tweaked earlier. He groaned around her breast while she tortured her small captive. As she pulled the shirt over his head after he'd pushed the unbuttoned flannel from her shoulders, Martha rose from his lap. He surveyed her skin in the moonlight, her body silhouetted against the window behind her. He couldn't see the wicked little grin on her face, but he knew what she was planning all the same as her hands dropped to the sides of his legs and she began to crawl up the length of him.

When she paused at the waistband of his pants, he realized that it would be a good idea to put the mental shields in place, lest Martha take his next thought (_think of England think of England think of England_) the wrong way. It was just as well—Martha had erected her own barriers, not wanting him to sense her trepidation at any potential surprise discoveries of his alienness (_didn't feel alien when I sat on his lap_). Even so, they came to the same conclusion at the same time, which was right as her tongue extended toward that which was decidedly not alien and quite enticing. He touched her hand, she looked in his eyes, and they spoke as if already joined and one—"Condoms?"

Martha leapt to her feet and ran to fetch her handbag. John rolled onto his side (_gently old man_) and fished around in the drawer of the bedside table. He managed to land on his back again just in time to welcome a flushed and slightly chilled Martha into his arms, her nipples hard and a bit cold against the heat of his skin. She was naked now, the shorts shed as she'd prepared for her vault onto the bed. As he kissed her and warmed her with his hands, he grinned as he realized how well she suited him, figuratively—her body, so small, but nestling into his in all the right places—and literally—she'd slipped the condom and herself onto him in a nearly simultaneous movement. She was moving over him now, and he slowly began to shift their angle on the bed. The moonlight was still too strong behind her and he wanted to see her face. Her nails raked the skin of his sides, while his hands clutched at her hips and slipped up her torso. She was taking care not to hurt him, but she really didn't need to—he didn't care if she broke every bone in his body, so long as she broke him inside her.

He reached his hand up to her face, aching for more, to pierce through to the root and core of her. He pulled her down to kiss him, her movements slowing slightly as her body shifted and she rested her (very slight) weight on her elbows. When his fingers brushed her temple, she opened herself to him entirely.

_No words_

It was shimmering gold in her mind, an ever loosing and expanding field that glowed, then simmered, then burned, then eased, over and over and over again until her movements quickened the particles in her mind. They coalesced into a tight ball as she tightened around him and he could feel her pulling from him what he wanted to give her so desperately. He cried her name as the ball shattered into a billion pieces of golden dust.

As he slowly became aware that he'd slipped from her mind and her body, he felt the hot tears sliding between their faces. She was kissing his tears, he was kissing her tears, and he wondered what she'd seen in his mind at the moment he'd pulsed his life into her (_silver and ice and white-hot fire, a sylvan tongue licking and lapping and pushing its life into her and one day she'd be able to show him_). She moved to his side, to the position she'd occupied earlier on the couch, a world away from now. Not wanting to break this perfect stillness, she touched him instead—

_Thank you. I needed_—

_I know. I did too._

He shivered and she reached behind her to pull the bed covers over their bodies. He followed suit, and they were warm and together and feeling whole for the first time in as long as they could each remember.

When she woke she was beneath the bedclothes and she was alone. She saw a small table beneath the window opposite the bed; on it was a tray with a teapot, a mug, and what might be breakfast. She rose and wrapped John's dressing gown, which was draped over the edge of the bed, around her; there was a chill in the room and she wanted to feel closer to him. Beneath the tray she found a long, flat box. The envelope on the box indicated that the package was for her, and she brought the box to the bed after she set the tray down upon it. She prepared her tea, checked the egg in the cup—it was warm, good sign—and then turned her attention to the box.

She opened the envelope first and found a heavy cream colored card inside. John's handwriting attempted to march neatly across the card

_I want you to know who and what and where I've been._  
_I'm here when you want to talk._

The package, a flat, large rectangle, felt solid and weighty in her hands. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine. When she untied the string and peeled back the paper, she found a book beneath several layers of tissue.

The book was bound in navy blue leather. The leather was tooled to resemble a paned window. It was closed with a clasp in the center of the cover; the book opened from the middle, like a set of French doors. It was thick. The closure on the book masked its true contents; when Martha opened it for the first time, she thought there were no pages to turn, confronted as she was by a vast expanse of heavy white paper. She noticed a small tab at the bottom right corner, and when she pulled it, she learned that the book inside was bigger than its outside suggested. The pages unfolded and pulled and spilled open; she found hidden nooks and crannies, doors that opened and closed, bits and pieces that popped up. Voices spoke to her. She shut the pages and turned her attention to the book's opening again. The interior of the cover was lined with a rich blue fabric with small burgundy stripes. She stroked the cover—the leather felt supple and warm—and then the fabric, which felt soft and smooth and surprisingly cool to the touch.

On the inside of the left panel, she found a suit pocket on the fabric. She unfastened the button, then pulled a small card from inside. On it, John had written

_I am nearly a thousand years old. _  
_I am only three months old. _  
_I didn't believe in miracles, but it's a miracle that I am. _

She closed the book. She buttered and ate the toast, cracked and ate the egg. She drank her tea. She rose and took the tray from the room to the dining table. John and Simon were there, working on the laser spanner.

Martha said good morning to Simon, then held her hand out to John. "Read to me?" she asked. His cheeks flushed and he nodded. He gave Simon instructions on what to do with the spanner. Martha could see bags of groceries on the table, and as John rose to join her, he grabbed a department store shopping bag and followed her to the bedroom. Before she went in, she took a piece of chalk from the box in the office. She marked the date on the wall and handed the chalk to John who wrote

_Today I told you my story._


	11. Chapter 11: Discovery

"So you just grew? From a hand in a jar?"

John and Martha were nestled on the bed, surrounded by an eclectic collection of pillows and blankets, a tray of tea and treats, and the book, which would serve as Martha's tour guide to John's, and the Doctor's, past.

"Yes, I grew. Is it really that hard for you, an eminent woman of science, to believe?"

"Hardly 'eminent'," she laughed, "and besides, what kind of scientist would I be if I accepted your story with no empirical evidence?"

He couldn't argue with her there. What did he have to offer her as proof of his tale after all?

He began to lift his shirt, and Martha punched his arm. "Oi! You've not getting out of this one, mister, no matter how talented that tongue of yours is!" She giggled as he scrambled out of the shirt, then gasped and ran her hand across his too-smooth stomach. It had been too dark the night before, she'd not been paying close attention, she'd been preoccupied.

John had no belly button.

Martha leaned back against the pillows and crossed her arms, her face and voice incredulous. "You grew. From a hand. In a jar."

John pulled the shirt back over his head, hoping that the flush he felt creeping over his skin would be hidden by the time he finished dressing. Martha noted the red in his face and reached for his hand. "I'm sorry. It's just a lot to take in." She motioned him to come closer, and she slipped her hand beneath his shirt to stroke his unmarked skin. No belly button-no umbilical cord-no conception-no mother- "Can you have children?" she asked clinically, then removed her hand and covered her mouth in horror at her bluntness.

"I-I-I don't know," he stuttered, flustered. "Haven't tried yet." He furrowed his brow and looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Why do you ask?"

Now it was Martha's turn to blush. "Well, I am a scientist." She laughed nervously, then ran her fingers over the leather of the book.

"So this book—whose story does it tell? Yours or the Doctor's?"

"Both. For all intents and purposes, until I was born at least, we're the same."

"How does it end?"

He thought for a moment. "I don't know. I don't know how it ends, exactly."

"But you wrote it; surely you know how it ends?"

"I don't know. I guess it isn't over yet."

"Then it's your story. The Doctor is just a fiction."

John was startled by her words. "But he is real. He exists."

"You said you come from a parallel world, right? That's where he is?"

John nodded.

"Then as far as this world is concerned, he's a fiction. He doesn't exist here."

John was amazed at how calmly Martha was taking what he'd told her. "I don't think you understand."

"You're right, I don't." She smiled at the look of confusion on his face. "How could I understand what that must be like—I'm just trying to make some sense of it all. You tell me you're an alien, but with the exception of evidence of a human birth, you seem entirely human to me. You tell me you grew from a hand—your own hand—and that you share your memories with someone who left you on a beach to live out your life in a parallel world." Martha stopped here, thinking that her therapist would have a field day with that one. She shook her head to clear it and continued. "All I know is what I see and experience. While you've said about 30 things since I've met you that might get you sectioned if you came into the A&E, you've also saved my life, taken care of me, treated me with the utmost respect and consideration, and," she colored a bit before she continued, "shown me the truest affection I've felt in years. I don't know who this Doctor is, but I think I know who you are, and I won't let him take you away from me. You're you and he's a fiction, in a parallel world. You may share a common past, but your story is your own."

John felt as though she'd knocked the wind from him. He wasn't quite sure that Martha knew what she'd just done, but he felt she'd unmasked him.

The room felt very small and stifling. He needed some air.

"I'll—I'll be right back," he stammered, and he practically bolted out of the door.

Simon looked up as John staggered into the front room. His boss looked pale and bewildered. He rushed to him and helped him to a seat at the table. "Can I get you anything sir? A glass of water? Tea?"

John looked at Simon quizzically, as if trying to puzzle him out.

"If I told you that I hadn't been actually born, but that I'd grown from a hand in a jar, what would you say?"

Simon looked very uncomfortable. This was unexpected.

"I'd say, prove it?" he finally mustered, his voice revealing his uncertainty that this was the correct answer. He needed to be very careful.

Simon turned beet red when John lifted his shirt, revealing his smooth torso. "And now?" John challenged, intrigued by this strong reaction from his assistant.

Simon gulped. "I'd say that proves it, sir."

"How do you know who you are? How do you know—" he paused, surprised he hadn't asked himself this question. Ever. "How do you know who you are?"

Simon didn't respond. He got the impression that Mr. Smith was asking himself the question and that he would give himself an answer, eventually.

"How do you know who you are when you have the memories of someone you've always considered as separate from you because you were separated from him? Whose memories are they, really, if your body didn't live them?"

Simon could see that something stronger than tea was called for. He went to the topmost cabinet in the kitchen and pulled down the bottle of scotch they kept around for "difficult moments," and brought it and a glass to John, who was staring at his hands.

Martha's reaction had shattered his entire view of his life in the space of thirty seconds. For the last three years he'd thought he was living his own life, but he realized now that he'd been living his life as if it were the Doctor's, choosing his name, building his toys, doing his work. What was his and what was His?

"I even think of him in capital letters," he muttered. He registered the appearance of the scotch and the glass. "Thank you," he told Simon, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table now, looking confused and very concerned. John poured himself a small drink, which he downed in one go. It burned his throat and cleared his head.

He could sort out his identity crisis later. He'd just scared Simon and run out on Martha, when all she'd tried to do was let him know that she accepted him as he was.

He stood, walked over to Simon, and put his arm around the young man's shoulder, pulling him into a friendly hug. "Sorry about that. Forgive me?" Simon was so surprised by the gesture that he let slip just a bit, and for the first time, John got a glimpse inside his head. He was being embraced by someone, an older man; he couldn't see his face, but he felt familial love. Simon pulled away from him at almost that exact instant, and John felt a wall go up between them. He reached out a hand to Simon, who flinched. He refused to look up at John.

"I'm sorry, Simon. I wasn't trying to pry."

The young man looked up at him shyly. "I know. I just should have been more careful."

"Was that your father?"

Simon nodded.

"Do you miss him?"

Simon nodded again, and John could see that he needed to stop asking him questions. For now.

"OK. I am sorry. How's the spanner coming along?"

Simon was glad to have a change of topic. He showed John his progress and beamed when he was complimented for the small changes he'd made to the design to increase efficiency. John patted him on the back, rumpled his hair, and returned to the bedroom. Before he entered, he grabbed a piece of chalk and scribbled a note on the wall.

###

After John fled the room, Martha poured herself a cup of tea, her hands shaking. She was terrified she'd done something wrong; she had been too forward, revealed too much about her feelings. What had possessed her to say those things?

She looked around the room, then down at the flannel shirt she'd borrowed from John. His shirt, his bed, his flat, his mug—she had nothing but the items in her handbag, a collection of files, and some clothing Simon had brought that morning. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them, clinging to the body that felt like the only thing standing between her and a vast empty chasm. Martha shut her eyes, pressing a few tears from them. All of this crying, all of this feeling was uncomfortable to her; she was used to being in control of her emotions, and as each day passed she felt that control slipping further and further away.

Her mind began to turn the feelings over, pushing them outward so that she could think, be rational. Terror—that was the easiest to overcome. She'd lived through enough awful things to know that she was going to make it through this one; if she didn't, she didn't, but it wouldn't be from a lack of effort on her part. She was, after all, Francine's daughter, and that meant she was a fighter. She still had her work, didn't she, the evidence of her effort. From what John and Jack had told her, she'd also have her reputation—if she agreed to meet with the reporter Torchwood had contacted, which she'd gladly do. Martha wasn't one for the spotlight, but this would be a small price to pay for the ability to continue her work.

Good. She was feeling better now. Her work was alright—something to build on.

Next was the loss of her home. She wasn't surprised that she felt no sorrow toward the furnishings; everything in the flat had come in when she'd started her medical training and moved out on her own. She'd been thinking about moving for a while now, finding a larger place so that she could start expanding her small life. She mentally catalogued the furnishings, and found that she felt nothing about their loss. Other items—photographs, old love letters, the quilt her grandmother had made—were infinitely more dear, and she knew that those were things she'd miss. But, she reminded herself, she still had her family—her mum and dad and brother and sister—and they'd help her by sharing their own mementos if she wanted them. She wasn't the only person who knew her family story.

Her eyes fell on the blue book, which she touched in her desire to be closer to him now. Those feelings he was awakening in her were the most frightening; she couldn't seem to push them outside for examination. They were too bound up with her body and physical sensation.

He'd been left with nothing too, only much less than she had, hadn't he? "He's built a life," she breathed, and she allowed herself to be glad that she was here and with someone who could understand. Maybe he would help her to write her story, teach her a new way to remember. She hoped she hadn't scared him away.

###

He found Martha sitting on the bed, her arms hugging her knees to her chest. She looked small and nervous and very alone, and he felt his throat and chest constrict as he saw how he'd hurt her. He sat behind her on the bed, wrapping himself around her. "I'm sorry," he whispered gently. "I was a bit unnerved. I didn't expect you to see me so clearly." _More clearly than I saw myself_, he thought wryly, and he knew she'd heard him as he felt her relax into his arms.

"Which hand?" she asked.

Full of surprises, this one. "The right," he murmured, and then choked back a tear when she took his right hand, studied it for a moment, then kissed it.

"If he were real, I'd thank the Doctor." She smiled as she felt him exhale and then kiss her neck. "I'm ready to hear your story."

###

There was a timid knock on the door. John looked up from Martha's neck, which he'd been nuzzling while she laughed at the story the book was telling her about school pranks he'd pulled. He was grateful for the interruption; she'd be getting to some not so funny stories soon about a lonely little boy. He called out "Yes, what is it? Come in."

The door creaked open slowly and Simon's head poked into the room. "The camera, sir. Can you tell me where it is?"

John thought for a moment. Where had he seen it last? "It was next to a book," he murmured and Martha suggested "Proust?" She had a clear memory of seeing a camera next to John's copy of _Remembrance of Things Past_. She'd thought it just messy at the time, but now?

"You use your books as a filing system?" she laughed. "Or are the electronic bits the filing system for the books?"

John grinned at her. "Oh, you're good, Martha Jones. I think I—" he caught himself—"like you very much." He hid his flushed cheek in her hair and her neck as he nibbled her skin.

Simon averted his eyes and cleared his throat.

John's head snapped up. "Right. Next to Proust, Simon. _Remembrance of Things Past_; never quite got through that one, all wandering and meandering about in memories. Never quite gets to the point—ow!" He rubbed his side where Martha had jabbed him with her elbow. "Right. Me to a T, eh?" He kissed her nose. "Maybe we should send out for Madelines?"

Simon excused himself and went off in search of the camera. His heart was happy, but heavy. He had a lot of work to do and a short amount of time to do it.

He'd been with John Smith for 14 months, 10 days, 8 hours, and 14 minutes. In fewer than 24 more hours, if all went as planned, his work would be done and he'd be home. He set up the panning arm in the hallway and attached the camera. He'd begin photographing here, then continue on with the rest of the flat. He set the controls and went off in search of his notepad. He needed to make sure he did everything in the right order. He couldn't risk any mistakes, and he needed to make sure he didn't get flustered and give anything away.

Next on the list was packing the bags. He located the two backpacks he'd stored in the office, then started filling one with the notebooks in the room.

###

"What's he want a camera for?" Martha had closed the book to give John's hands access to the skin of her belly, which he was stroking with greater and greater insistence. It was only fair; she'd subjected him to a similar inspection earlier, and he appeared determined to spend as much time as she had in ascertaining exactly how sensitive this spot of skin could be.

"Dunno. Odd one, he is." John drew circles around her belly button. She giggled at the touch, then moaned and stroked his hair as he licked her there. He blew on the now-moist exposed skin and she shivered slightly. _Insatiable_, she thought to him, and he smirked in her mind.

There was another, more urgent, knock at the door. "Very. Bad. Timing." John spat out, then laughed as he saw the bemused look on Martha's face. "Just a minute." He drew the dressing gown closed while Martha tidied the buttons on the flannel shirt.

It was Jack, not Simon, at the door, and when he saw his face, John quickly stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him.

Jack was trying to regain his composure.

"You've got to go—pack now—we need to get you two to safety."

"What do you mean? Have they found us?"

"Yes, well, they're about to." He glared at John. "Someone has a criminal record."

John rolled his eyes. "Bah—it was community service; I can't believe they kept a record!"

"Well, they did, and it's been accessed, so we have to move you both quickly." Jack went silent when Martha stepped out of the room, dressed in the clothing Simon had brought that morning. "Hi Martha." His voice was shy; he didn't know quite how to be around her now.

She broke the silence and gave him a hug. "Thank you," she whispered and kissed his cheek. He held her for a moment, then let her down gently. "Right," she said, taking control. "What do we need to do and how quickly do we need to do it?"

Within ten minutes they were ready to go. John was surprised when Simon handed them each one of the already-packed backpacks. Simon and Jack worked out coordinates on the manipulator; John and Martha would use it to teleport undetected. They had no idea where they were headed, but they trusted Jack to send them to their next hiding place. In the bedroom, they packed a duffel with some clothing and toiletries. He placed the tissue-wrapped book into the bag, then went to the bedside table to get a few items he didn't want to leave behind.

He had left the TARDIS with little more than the clothes on his back, but the Doctor had managed to slip a few surprises into the pockets of his jacket. John walked over to Martha and took her hand. He placed one of the biodampers on her palm and folded her hand over it. "I hope you don't think this is too weird, but I need you to wear this. It's a proper biodamper; it will keep you hidden." He slipped the other onto his finger—there was too much of his genetic material in this flat and he didn't want to become a trigger for one of those bombs.

Martha looked at the small ring in her palm, forcing herself to think about its design—compared to the damper UNIT had rigged in the hat, this was positively elegant—and not wonder why he had a set of wedding bands. She was glad to find that it fit comfortably on her index finger. She told herself it meant nothing, and she needed to stay hidden.

"It's time," Jack called from the front room, and John gave Martha a quick kiss. "You ready?" he asked, questioning himself as much as he questioned her. She nodded and smiled. "It's going to be OK," she said and as she took his hand, he felt sure that it would be. They walked up to the front room.

"Are you ready Simon?" John was helping Martha with the backpack before he put on his own. He realized that he didn't have a ring for Simon. He was about to remove his to give it to the young man—his DNA was all over the flat as well—when Jack shook his head.

"He's got work to do with us," Jack said.

John looked at Simon with dismay. "Who are you?" he demanded. "You've been with me for months and I feel as though I don't know who you are." John grabbed Simon's arms and searched his eyes. "Please tell me," he pleaded with him. "I thought we got on together. I trusted you. I do trust you; why won't you trust me?"

Simon said nothing, but Martha and Jack could see that he wanted to speak and ease John's pain. Martha had observed the relationship between John and his apprentice, and she knew how much affection they had for each other. She hurt for both of them, for Simon's visible struggle, and John's clear feelings of betrayal.

John's grip on Simon's arms tightened and his tone matched the intensity in his eyes. "If you can't tell me, can you show me?"

Simon wrenched himself away from John, his fear evident. Martha pulled John away from him; he gripped her hands. "Why won't you tell me?"

"I can't sir. I wish that I could; you don't know how much I want to tell you—"

Jack cut Simon off. "I'll take care of him. You've got to get going. They're coming."

John looked at Martha, who nodded, and then at Simon. "Promise me he'll be alright, Jack."

"I'll be alright, sir. Don't worry, OK? I know what I'm doing." Simon reached out a hand to John and the older man pulled the younger into a tight hug.

"I'll see you again soon?"

Simon was silent. He broke away from John and stood next to Jack.

John pulled on his pack, looked around the flat, and picked up the duffel and the wrist strap. He gave Jack and Simon a small nod and a smile, then clasped hands with Martha over the teleport device. They pushed the button and were gone.

"You OK?" Jack patted Simon on the shoulder.

"I will be," Simon replied after taking a deep breath. "I'm glad I got to know him, Uncle Jack."

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," Jack groaned. "C'mon. We've got to get moving fast."

Within another ten minutes the flat was vacant, the furniture and books and trappings of a normal life left to the whim of time.

###

John and Martha found themselves on a plush sofa, the backpacks uncomfortably wedged between them and the pillows. "Jack is very good at this," John marveled, and Martha nodded her agreement. They looked around and tried to sort out where they'd landed. There was something very familiar about this room to John—

"It's about time you arrived. I expected you lot ten minutes ago. Connie? Bring the tea in will you? They'll need it straight away."

Martha was confused, but John's eyes lit up and his face broke into a huge grin at the sight of the woman now standing before them.

"Come here, you plum, and give us a hug."

John stood and wrapped his arms tightly around the blonde woman who, to Martha's eyes looked both familiar and a bit out of place in the well-appointed sitting room. John released the woman and turned to Martha, holding out his hand to help her stand.

"Martha Jones, I'd like you to meet Jacqueline Andrea Suzette Tyler."

"Oi, enough with the showing off—just 'cause Pete couldn't remember doesn't mean you have to rub it in." She held out her hand to Martha. "Call me Jackie, love. I've heard loads about you from Pete these last couple of days." Martha took her hand, and was surprised when the woman pulled her into a hug as tight as the one she'd given John. When Jackie released her, she looked into Martha's face and smiled.

"You know, it never gets old," she said, looking at John now. "She looks just like her!"

Martha couldn't see John shaking his head at Jackie, but she could tell that the woman knew she'd erred by the expression on her face.

She turned to look at John who was visibly distressed. Parallel world. Parallel people, perhaps?

"I think you've got some explaining to do, mister."


	12. Chapter 12: Revelations

Martha sat in the chair near the window and tried to focus. After the hasty hellos and the awkward revelation, Jackie and Connie had rushed her and John upstairs, installing them in separate bedrooms on one of the many halls in the mansion. She was waiting for John to return with the duffel so that she could unpack the few items of clothing she'd brought, the few items of clothing she owned. For the second time that day, Martha rehearsed her emotional catalogue, holding each feeling out before her to consider, to contain, then to put away. When she arrived at John, she stopped again. Her body kept intervening, reminding her that the heart knows things the head wants to hide away.

She reached for the phone on the table near the chair and called her mother. It had been a day since they'd spoken, and she needed to know they were safe.

"Martha? Where are you? Are you safe?" Martha could hear the worry in her mother's voice, and she added guilt to the list of emotions she'd have to examine later.

"Yes, mum, I'm fine. We've had to move to a new location, but we're safe now." Martha hoped her voice did not belie her worries on this score. At least at John's she'd been tucked away on hidden London streets, in the home of a man with a faceless name. This hiding place was obvious; she couldn't believe that Jack had actually thought this was a good idea, but he had, and perhaps it was, the unlikeliness of this home as a hiding place masking her interment there. And who knew, she reminded herself, what weaponry protected this house. If UNIT had bio bombs—

"Martha? Are you there? What's wrong?"

"Sorry Mum—just got lost there for a moment." _Focus,_ she admonished herself. "How are you? Are they still with you?"

"Yes," Francine sighed, and Martha could hear the movement and chatter of people in the background. She felt for her mother and family, trapped in the family home, under guard, with no real understanding even of why they were being kept there. "I just wish someone would tell me what's going on."

"We can't, mum, not just yet," Martha said, her own frustration at being separated from her mother, her family, at this moment when she was beginning to feel utterly unanchored, pressing through her voice. "I promise, I'll tell you everything as soon as I can." Martha looked at the clock on the table. One minute left before she needed to hang up the phone; Pete and Jack were still concerned about tracking, and she wanted to be cautious until this was all over.

"Mum?"

"Yes dear?"

"When did you know? About Dad, I mean. When did you know he'd gone too far?"

Her mother was silent. Martha knew she'd shocked her by asking; Martha never asked her mother things so starkly.

"When he no longer felt like a part of me," she finally said. "When I looked at him and saw a stranger."

Martha could hear a voice urging Francine to hang up the phone and looked at the clock nearby. Three minutes.

"Thanks mum. I'm sorry. I love you."

"I love you too, dear. You'll explain this to me later?" Francine hung up the phone after she assented, and Martha stared at the receiver for a few moments before replacing it on the cradle.

Her family was OK, her mother was OK, but this was all her fault, wasn't it?

Martha knew dwelling on that question wouldn't do her any good, not while she was still in danger (a danger made all the more menacing by her lack of knowledge about its origins and intentions). There was nothing she could do, she told herself, not until she was in motion again, until she had some idea of what she should be doing. She thought back to the frenetic quality of her travels with Jack, how they'd operate on sheer adrenalin, their own systems speeding up from the rush of traveling through time. This was different—the threat was hidden, slow, and strangely more menacing because she knew nothing, could do nothing, until she had more of an idea of what, exactly, she needed to focus her attention on.

Her mind returned to John. What was taking him so long? More questions needing answers. She hoped she could trust him to tell her what she needed to know (or hear—she hadn't quite decided which she wanted yet).

Martha surveyed the room, taking in her surroundings, the second new bedroom in as many days. The chair she was seated in was deep and plush, the perfect chair for reading before falling asleep. To her left was a small table with a lamp, telephone, and shelves beneath holding a couple of magazines. The bed was massive, a deep mahogany four poster job, with brocade bedding in red and gold tones. On the wall opposite the bed was a mahogany wardrobe. On the wall opposite Martha, next to the door into the room, was a mahogany dressing table with a mirror. She stared at her reflection, blinking at the familiar face surrounded by so much new.

Martha rose and walked over to the dressing table. She'd placed the files she'd found in the backpack there; perhaps there was some information in the files that would give her some hint or clue. She took the green folder, the one about the Cybermen, and returned to the chair. Before, when she looked at it, she'd stopped at the beginning. Now she wanted to see more.

She started from the back; her time at UNIT had taught her to file the most recent information on top of the file. The initial bits outlined Lumic's rise, and detailed UNIT's first inklings that something was happening to the homeless people rumored to be disappearing. As the reports approached the day of the mass conversion, the telephone transcripts, surveillance reports, duty reports, and photographic records became denser and filled with more and more information. Martha's head ached as she tried to get through it all.

When she got to the post-write up, she came across a few still photographs from the control room in Lumic's zeppelin. John's—no, the Doctor's face was clear in profile in one of the images. Martha's finger traced his jawline, then the angle of his nose. He was alive, somewhere in some other universe, like, but not like this one. John hadn't told her much about his parallel world, but he'd said they didn't have zeppelins there. She'd laughed about it, thinking him mad—why on earth would that failed winged machine (she couldn't recall the name—a set of brothers?) have been preferred over the zeppelin? But it was real—Jackie had confirmed that for her in her mistaken revelation. He was there too, this other John, this "Doctor" with no proper name. He'd known another Martha Jones. John's reaction to Jackie's revelation suggested that there were reasons not to have told her in that way.

She thought back to the day they'd met, and recalled the easy familiarity with which she'd accepted him. He'd looked as though he were surprised to have seen _her,_ and not, she realized now, because he was surprised she'd run into him. He was surprised to have seen Martha Jones walking on the street. He was surprised to have been near her flat (did the other Martha live in the same one?). And Jack—that must be why he knew Jack, there must be another one in the parallel world.

The questions started mounting in her mind, so many questions about the people she knew in this world and the ones her double in the next would know and how they might have related to each other, the decisions they might have made. She wondered who were among the living and the dead. She wondered—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door. She walked over and opened it to find John there, the duffel extended before him. He was all consternation and timidity, and she felt sorry for him, and for herself. She took the bag from him and motioned him into the room and toward the chair she'd occupied moments before. They existed for a few moments in silence as she began to remove the few personal items remaining in the bag.

John's mouth was dry and his mind was racing as he sat in the chair and stared at the thick carpet. He didn't know what to say, how to begin, what to expect. And there was also the matter of this shadowy threat—Jackie had told him that Pete was expecting his call within the hour, and he needed to be clear in his mind to sort out what to do to protect Martha. As he lifted his eyes to see what she was doing, his gaze landed on the open folder to his left, on the picture of the Doctor that Martha had been looking at moments before. The Doctor and the Cybermen—as good a start as any.

"This is, I suppose, where a good bit of it began," he sighed as he took the photograph in his hand. "At least, the bits that relate to Martha, that begin to explain the story of Martha Jones and the Doctor." His opening was met with silence, and he looked over to see Martha seated on the other side of the room, in the chair at the dressing table. He could see his own reflection in the mirror behind her, the mirror of the man in the photograph, but not exactly or precisely the same.

"We—me, the Doctor I mean, and Jackie's daughter, Rose—used to travel together in the other world. One day we discovered that the Cybermen had escaped your world and crossed over through cracks in the barriers between the universes. A lot happened that day." His eyes got a faraway look. "Jackie met this world's Pete that day—she'd lost her Pete years before when Rose was a baby—and we defeated the Cybermen and the Daleks—I'll have to tell you about them another time—and I lost Rose."

"How did you lose her?" Martha could see that the memory caused him pain to retell. "Would it be easier to show me?"

He blinked and could see his surprise register on his face in the mirror. "No," he replied, a bit hastily Martha noted. "I think it's better to tell this." He didn't want her to see Adeola again, and he wasn't sure he could control the memory enough, not in his current state.

"When I figured out how to send them into the void and to seal the cracks between the universes, I sent Rose back here, to this world. Her mother and Mickey had decided to stay here, to start again. I wanted her to be safe and I knew that eventually she'd regret being separated from everyone she knew, no matter how much she wanted to stay. But she's stubborn—"He chuckled a bit at the memory, then grew quiet as he replayed it in his mind.

"She came back," Martha said quietly, and John could see that she had registered the significance of Rose's choice.

"Yes. She came back." He inhaled deeply before continuing. "We did what we had to do, but she lost control, she was about to be sucked into the void, where she would be lost forever. Then Pete appeared—he caught her, he took her here, and the cracks sealed, and she was gone."

Martha let him sit quietly for a moment; she could see that this story was, while years old, still something that caused him pain. She wanted to close the space between them, to cross the chasm of the carpet, but knew that her body might not be able to follow the dictates of her mind. She needed to know more.

"Where is this going?" she asked. His head snapped up, his eyes snapped open, and she felt as though she'd pressed a hot button, pulled a taut string. "What does this have to do with the other—" she paused, searching for the term, "me?"

"I met her after I lost Rose. Not directly after. Before Martha there was—" he stopped, not certain that he wanted to speak of Donna just yet. "—someone else, someone who told me I needed to find someone to travel with again." _Someone to stop me_, he thought,_ just as she'd tried to stop me on the Crucible._ His fist clutched and twisted the photograph in his hand.

"I met her in the hospital and she saved me and I saved her and we traveled together for a while. It was—I was—Martha, do you really want to hear this?"

"What was it? What were you?"

He inhaled deeply. "I was raw. I'd lost so much—not just Rose, although I didn't understand right away and neither did Martha—and things just got very complicated very quickly. It was a long time before they understood each other. I don't think she and the Doctor understood each other until I was born. They still may not, for all I know." He remembered the conversation he'd had with Rose afterward, about the Osterhagen Key and the Warp Star and the Doctor's reaction to Davros' taunts. Sometimes John felt as though his exile was the payment for what the Doctor perceived as Martha, Jack, and Sarah Jane's sins, sins which, in the Doctor's mind, ultimately culminated in John's decision to do what the Doctor would never do.

"Martha and the Doctor, were they—did they—"

"No. They were—they are—friends. I don't think they'll ever be anything else. The Doctor isn't one for domestic life."

"I still don't see what this has to do with Rose."

"When the Daleks created the bomb—when the stars went out" John detected a hint, a flicker of something dark in Martha's eyes, but continued on. "When the stars went out, Rose crossed the universes to find the Doctor, but when it was done, when the Daleks were defeated—" this time, Martha recognized the darkness in John's eyes "—she had to return here. I stayed to be with her."

"And by 'be with her' you mean?"

"The Doctor loved her, Martha, and she loved him. Losing her was agony for him, after he'd lost so much. That loss colored everything about his time with Martha. But by the time the Daleks came and Rose found him, he'd healed, with the help of friends like Martha and time. He still loved her, but things were different. He was different." He paused, uncertain about how to proceed. The earlier bits, the parts about the Doctor, felt easier to share, as though they were part but not part of him. He knew, though, that everything that happened after the Doctor had left the beach was entirely of his own making.

He could almost see the shield Martha had placed before her eyes, her expression almost clinical as she listened to his tale. John decided to continue; she had the book, didn't she, so he really couldn't hide it.

"We were supposed to—when he left us, he left me with her so that I could give her what he couldn't—a normal life, with a normal love. But that wasn't what she wanted, in the end. I wasn't what she wanted. And the more I thought about it, she wasn't what I wanted either."

"What did you want?"

"Like I told you that first night—I wanted to become what I was becoming. I wanted to be human. Rose and I, we could have never untangled what it meant to be something new in this world from the something old he and she had been in the other. We were both going to die, we were supposed to grow old together now and die, but that wasn't what they'd imagined it would be like."

Martha looked at the ring on her index finger and the ring on John's hand. "So he left you with her, to be with her." John nodded and closed his eyes.

"Did you love her?"

He raised an eyebrow, questioning her question. Hadn't he just said—

"You, not the Doctor. Did you love her?"

"I…I had his memories of loving her. I had that in my mind. I—"

"Did you love her?"

Martha would give him no quarter, he could tell, and he felt, for the first time in a long time, since that moment on the Crucible when he'd taken charge of his identity and made his own choice—he felt certain of who he was.

"No. I don't know that I did."

John collapsed back in the chair and shut his eyes tight. He was back at the beginning, the start of the lie that he'd spun around himself for three long years. His mind had the Doctor's memories but he wasn't the Doctor, not in the ways that make a person whole. _Like a Cyberman,_ he thought, _a brain stuffed in a body that has no memory of the life the mind once knew._ This was why Rose rejected him, why he left her. He hadn't realized it, but it had been there beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself to him.

"Isn't that wizard," he said wryly, and the phrase called to mind Donna, who he'd pushed so far down in his mind that he hadn't thought of her and now he just ached and the tears were coming, hot and fast and thick. He wiped at his face with his hands, dropping the picture of the Doctor, which he'd crumpled into a ball, on the table.

As much as she wanted to comfort him, Martha needed more answers. She could see that the web of memories was dense and complex, that many threads and many lives were woven into this tapestry. She thought about his book; what she'd already seen of it assured her that she'd get to delve more deeply into those memories if she wanted to know more, when all was said and done. Still, there were questions lingering on the surface, and she needed answers.

"And Martha—that other Martha—did he love her?"

He was silent for a moment, his fingers absently turning the ring. "Yes."

She pressed him further. "The way he loved Rose?"

John shook his head and looked her in the eye. "No. He couldn't love her that way. He thought he couldn't love anyone else that way."

She couldn't stop herself from asking the next question that came to mind, although she had no idea what she'd profit from the answer. "Would he have—if things had been different, would the Doctor have chosen Martha?"

Intellectually, he knew that Martha's questions were justified, but his new understanding of his self as separate from the Doctor was so fresh that he found himself becoming agitated, as though she were strip mining his memories.

"I honestly don't know. And does it even matter? She's not real—" he was getting angry now "—she's a fiction, isn't she, someone who doesn't exist?"

Martha flinched as he hurled the words at her, and he immediately softened. He remembered Rose's reaction to the parallel world, to the knowledge that Pete lived here. _A gingerbread house,_ he'd called it, and John knew that Martha was processing something very new and confusing to her. He started to understand a bit of what the Doctor must have felt as he went off with Rose on her quest to find Pete Tyler. John wanted her to recognize the intellectual difference and accept it, but knew that she needed to sift through the emotional connection before they could move on. Minds that think connected to bodies that feel; he understood now, in this body, another facet of what it meant to be human.

When he spoke again his voice was gentle. "Martha, he didn't think of her in that way. You're—different. And I'm different. Time and space have made us different from them. I'm here, I want you, this you, because of who I am and who you are. I want to know who we might become together. That other Martha and the Doctor love each other the way that they do because of what they went through together; their time together—well, let's say they had some good times, but much of it was so horrible for both of them. They got through it because they could rely on each other. There was this one year—" he paused, and Martha could almost see him separating himself from the Doctor's memory "—that year broke him—and her—and in the end they broke each other into loving the way that they love."

Martha was silent. John could see that she was thinking, processing, puzzling it out. He felt drained, and he knew that he needed to contact Pete soon. So many revelations, so much new knowledge about himself, but he wished that he had the Doctor's tremendous wellspring of energy to draw from; he'd need it to get through the day.

He crossed the room and knelt before her. She was so still, so quiet. He took her hands in his and held them, rubbing his thumbs over her smooth skin. They were staring at each other, and he felt as though they were each trying to pierce the veil of their duplicate selves to get at what was real beneath.

"I want to know you, Martha, here and now. I don't know how to prove that to you other than just to be myself—whoever that is—and to be with you."

Martha didn't speak. Her eyes were still fixed on his, and John could see tears threatening to spill over into the small lines forming on their edges. He pursed his lips, sad as he thought of the years to come when he might not be able to watch her transform. He squeezed her hands as he rose, their eyes never leaving each other until he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"I do know this," he murmured into her skin. "I'm not him and you're not her. That's all that matters."

She wanted to believe him. He hoped she could.

###

He was gone now; Pete had called, Jack had given him coordinates, and he'd teleported out of the mansion, but not before asking her to go through her files, to look for anything that might reveal something about Prince's activities behind the scenes. Martha was frustrated to be left in the house—she wanted to be active, to be involved—but she acquiesced out of fear of discovery and a desire to have time to think.

Martha looked over at the monitor on John's laptop and checked the scanning program she was using to comb through the digital data files from her research records. Nothing new. She returned to the paper files, her eyes aching as they considered the records of each step of the experimental process, her search for any mentions of Prince or Morgenstern (that betrayal still stung, but she pushed herself past that), ending as fruitlessly this time as it had the last.

She stood to stretch, and began to pace around the room, then walked into the bathroom to wash her face. Night had settled over the landscape, and when she switched on the light in the room, she noticed a small basket filled with various facial cleansers and lotions, which she eagerly used. Refreshed, she returned to the room and sat in the reading chair.

The green file was still there, and she flipped through it absentmindedly, picking up her survey where she'd left off before. There wasn't much left to look into—a few debriefing reports from that day, notations of various meetings held with government officials, planning reports and catering bills for the same—nothing out of the ordinary, she thought, but in the back of her mind was a gentle nagging itch, the sense that something was here, in this room, that would clue her in.

Connie had brought in a small tray with tea and sandwiches, and Martha helped herself to a bit of food while she looked over her records another time. The various formulas they'd tested for the neural pathway accelerator marched before her eyes, and she smiled as she recalled the conversations she and her team had when the final version was complete. They'd decided that the best delivery system, psychologically, was a liquid, but had argued about various tastes, some lobbying for the sweet, some for the medicinal. They'd had tasting parties, blindfolding themselves for various tests, until they'd settled on a lightly flavored additive with a hint of honey. Her superiors had thought it a waste of effort, but Martha and her team knew that the means of delivering a drug were as relevant to its success and effectiveness as the drug itself, particularly in this case, where the mind needed to be receptive to the changes brought about by the accelerator.

Those discussions had paled in comparison to the ones surrounding the training regimen; the trial subjects had gone through various mental and physical conditioning exercises to learn how to access and control their newly developed communication centers. It had been a long process, but many of them had been successful, communicating through touch as effortlessly as they had through their vocal chords. The next phase of the project, the transmission of thought without the requirement of touch, was scheduled to commence on her return from her holiday.

"Some holiday," she grimaced. Martha knew that she was just running into mental walls. She walked over to the bed where she'd placed John's book. She wanted to open it, but knew that she'd likely only find more questions than answers there, and she had enough questions to deal with at the moment. As always with her life, these personal matters had to take a backseat to professional concerns.

Martha returned to the table and checked the laptop scan, contextual information from each hit scrolling past her on the screen. There was nothing really surprising, and she rubbed her eyes as the motion began to lull her into mental complacency.

A knock on the door and the sound of it slowly opening snapped her back to attention. "So, everything alright?" Jackie poked her head inside the door and Martha nodded for her to come in. "Oh, good, you had some food. I was worried you might be hungry."

Martha smiled. "No, it was just what I needed. Thank you for sending it up; I've not been a very good houseguest, I'm afraid."

Jackie walked over to the chair opposite Martha. "No worries love. I know that you're trying to sort things out, and that can take a lot of concentration. But I thought you might be ready for a little break." When she reached the chair, she noticed the crumpled photograph on the table beside it, and instinctively smoothed the creases. She stared at the photograph as she sat in the chair, then looked over to Martha, who was watching her actions in the mirror.

Jackie's voice was kind. "Did he tell you about her? About Martha and the Doctor?"

Martha sighed. "He didn't say much about Martha, well, not as much as I would have liked, but I get the impression that her story was really bound up with another's." Martha looked down at the keyboard as she tried to gauge how much she should share with Jackie, then realized she probably knew more than Martha did. "He told me about Rose and the Cybermen."

Jackie gave her a small smile, then walked over to the table to pat her shoulder. "That's not a story I'd want to hear when my life was in danger." Martha raised her head. Jackie looked into the mirror, into Martha's eyes. "It's alright. I'm her mother, but I love him too. What happened was for the best in the end." She hugged Martha's shoulder quickly, then released her and leaned against the wall. "What say we have a little girl time, hmm?" Jackie's eyes were playful and, Martha noted, just a wee bit conspiratorial. "Now that Tony's down for the night, a glass of wine might be just the thing." She motioned Martha to follow her. As Jackie went toward the door, her eye fell on the book on the bed.

Martha watched as she stroked the cover with her finger, and she wondered what had happened to her. She must have been really affected by her daughter's travels, and as Martha flashed back to bits of John's story, she realized that there were more people affected than just Rose, Martha, the Doctor, and John. She wondered if Jackie might share some of her side of the story.

"Jackie," she began, her voice tentative, "would you feel comfortable…could you tell me…"

Jackie looked over her shoulder to Martha. "Sure love. If he's given you this, I don't see what harm there could be in telling you my side. But you should know," her tone shifted and was more in line with the boisterous woman Martha had met on arrival, "there was a lot of bad with the good. God knows I love 'em both, him and the Doctor, but they do know how to get into trouble. C'mon then. I'm not getting any younger."

Martha grinned, grabbed her mobile and the laptop, and followed Jackie into the kitchen.

###

Martha and Jackie were seated at the kitchen table, a half-full bottle of wine between them. Martha had quickly ascertained that Jackie's history with the Doctor was as complex as it ought to be; her daughter had been young when she'd started traveling with him, and she'd worried as any mother would worry about the welfare of a child. Martha's thoughts strayed several times to Francine, wondering how she would have responded to that situation. _She'd be mental,_ Martha thought, knowing that her mother's concern with her children's lives had grown exponentially with the dissolution of her marriage. If things ran parallel between worlds—

"You alright?" Jackie's question broke her reverie, and Martha apologized.

"Sorry—just thinking about my mum, how she would have reacted. Did you know the other Martha's mother?"

"No. Only met that Martha once. Lovely girl, though, and from what John's told me, the Doctor thought so too." She smiled and offered Martha more wine. As she poured, she continued telling Martha about Rose's first return home.

"Twelve months?" Martha was incredulous. "How could he? "

"I thought the same thing—blamed him for a long time—but really, it was a mistake. Between you and me," she raised her eyebrows and took a drink from the glass, "Rose said he was awful at getting where he intended to go. I can understand why; the TARDIS looked a bit old."

"The TARDIS?" Martha asked. "The Doctor's time machine?"

"Yes. Stands for—oh, I can't remember—but it was nothing to look at, from the outside at least. A big blue police box." Jackie laughed as she remembered that Christmas when the box bounced off the walls of the Powell estate before landing. "Not a good pilot that one, not at all. Don't think I'd trust him to fly a zeppelin. Rose said they always rattled about. Except for that last time…Perfect landing…" Jackie's voice trailed off, and Martha could see that she was lost in a memory. She could only guess which one.

"She called him the Doctor at first," Jackie sighed, "but he wasn't, and she knew it, and he knew it, and then"—she topped off her own glass—"she grew up." After a moment, she added, "he grew up too."

Martha stared into her wine glass. "It worked for you and Pete, though, didn't it?"

Jackie was surprised at Martha's boldness, but smiled and nodded. "It did work for us. Never really thought about it that way."

"Why do you think it did?"

Jackie was silent for a few moments, her brow furrowed, and Martha worried that she may have overstepped. After all, she'd just met this woman, although the circumstances of their meeting seemed to have forged an instant bond between them. _Just like me and John_, she thought, and she felt a small pang for the way she'd left things with him. His voice had been so sad. Martha thought back to her mother's words. She might not know everything about him, but she knew he wasn't a stranger.

"We knew we weren't the same," Jackie finally said. "Pete and me—we knew that it was a different person with the same face. But it was like," her voice and eyes got a bit dreamy, and Martha could almost see a teenage girl before her, "finding each other all over again. It was all new, 'cause it was like we were new." She smiled and took a sip from her glass. "I saw it when John looked at you." Jackie winked at Martha, who was running her finger nervously around the base of the wine glass. "He knows who he's seeing when he looks at you."

###

It was nearly midnight and Martha was still seated at the kitchen table, the glass of wine replaced by a cup of strong coffee. Jackie had spoken to Pete briefly, then gone up to bed after giving Martha a warm hug. Their conversation had helped Martha tremendously, and had given Jackie some insight into the workings of her own heart. As she went to her room, she hoped that her daughter had found what she sought as well.

The search program was still scrolling past Martha's eyes on the screen, and she was beginning to see some patterns emerging with the various requisition requests that had come from her office. Most of them were normal, but on a handful the items were correct but the quantities were—well, they were wrong. Tremendously wrong. Martha wondered how she could have missed such gross errors when she signed the requests, then remembered that the efficiency protocols she'd set in place for such routine purchases didn't require her signature at all. She isolated the incorrect orders, then opened the files. She cross-referenced the dates with her calendar, realizing that each order was placed on a day when she was away, and each was scheduled to be delivered on the same.

Her stomach tied in knots as she considered the implications of massive quantities of the components for the accelerator being stored _somewhere_. She felt ill as she recalled the times Prince had commended her for running such a tightly controlled organization, for "toeing the bottom line" in her division expenditures, when all along he'd been setting her up to take the fall for some massive misappropriation of government funds. The orders ranged back over several years, the quantities increasing as soon as her team had hit upon the correct formulation for the accelerator. She made a list of all the chemicals and amounts procured, then quickly calculated how much of the accelerator could be manufactured from that amount. The number on the page was staggering, and she closed her eyes as she considered exactly how such a quantity might be utilized.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and shrieked.

"Shh, Martha, it's me, it's OK." She felt John's hands, heard John's voice, and was soothed. He wrapped his arms around her as he slid to kneel next to her. "I'm sorry; didn't mean to scare you."

She looked down into his eyes and smiled softly, relieved to see him. "It's OK. Just a bit jumpy is all." She stroked his hair before she took his face in her hands and pulled him into a surprisingly intense kiss. He froze for a moment, then reciprocated, deepening the kiss as his hands held tightly to her hips. _So we're OK?_ he thought to her, and she murmured a soft "yes" as she slowly pulled away from his lips. Martha rested her forehead against his and bit her bottom lip, allowing her body to relax for a moment before speaking. "I take it you didn't return just to ask me that question."

John chuckled, then pulled slightly away, his face now serious. "I came here to get you, to bring you to Torchwood. We know who it is now."

In his eyes she saw fear, and when he reached up his hand to caress her cheek, she knew that the fear was related to her. She tried to put him, and herself at ease. "Good," she said, her voice sounding much braver than she felt, "because I think I know what they're going to do."


	13. Chapter 13: Rules of the Game

John found himself in Pete's office, a tray with tea and biscuits waiting for him. He poured a cup and drank it while he got his bearings. Time travel without a capsule was never really a good way to go, and this was his second trip in less than three hours. He was exhausted.

"Hello John." Pete Tyler extended a hand to him, which John grasped before rising to embrace the man in a warm hug. It had been too long.

"Thank you for helping. I know you had to, in a way, but all the same—"

"Part of the job when you're watching over the world." Pete sat on the couch and poured himself a cup of tea. "Thank you for coming to help us out with this one. I know you prefer to keep out of events, especially governmental ones."

"So UNIT's in pretty deep here?"

"Not in the way you'd think, although there's a good bit of rotten to root out there. The Colonel's returned to his base with Ross; they're due to check in with us in an hour, when we hope to have more information to share with them as well."

"Never known you all to play nice with each other." John raised a brow as he dunked a biscuit in the tea. "What brings this about?"

"Your Dr. Jones, that's what. Well, her and that reporter," Pete smirked, remembering the very twitchy two hours he and Mace had spent with her in the café. "She's keeping us on our toes."

"She here?"

Pete shook his head. "At UNIT; we agreed it was better to let her in on things as they develop in a way we can control, rather than have her out there on her own. She'll be back here later, I assume, although our private status makes her claim to information about Torchwood a bit more difficult to support."

"What about Mar—Dr. Jones?" John corrected himself. "Why is everyone so concerned about her? I thought the chip was the thing."

"Well, we've found all of the study participants. Several of them were hidden away in a sanatorium—that Prince is a real piece of work, let me tell you—but the remainder are in our infirmary, where they're getting top treatment. Ianto's in charge."

John was glad to hear it; he knew how much faith Pete had in Ianto, and tasking him with the subjects' welfare was a sign of how important it was that they recover safely. He knew that Pete had hoped that he would be the man to fill Ianto's role, and John was glad that someone who actually could do the job well had it. "Were there any other soldiers affected?"

"We found one regiment who'd been fitted like the ones in the café yesterday." Pete noticed John cringe, but said nothing. He knew he'd work it out in his own way. "UNIT's taking care of them at their facility as well. Your Dr. Jones, on the other hand—"

Pete's voice trailed off, and John wondered what was on his mind, and why he kept referring to her as "his" Dr. Jones. "Yes? What about her?"

"What do you know about her research?" Pete inquired, and John felt as though he were being scrutinized.

"Not much, really," John replied. "I know that she's found a natural route to unlocking human telepathic abilities, but we haven't really discussed the how yet." _Haven't had time,_ he thought, _what with all the talk about "me" going on._

"Do you know why she did it?" Pete asked.

John nodded as he focused on the cup in his hand.

"We've been watching her—well, Ianto has—for a while now. We were too spread out dealing with the factories around the world, then the global warming, then the stars—" John could see Pete softening a bit as he considered the various crisis situations he'd faced over the years. The weight of his role in the world was clearly pressing on him, and he was amazed that this man, with the daft dreams and the health drink fortune had become savior to so many. "—we should have got to her first." Pete leaned forward, his hands clasped before him as his arms rested on his knees.

"I think she's alright, Pete." John didn't understand Pete's concern, although he knew its source. When he'd lived in the mansion, they'd talked a few times about the aftermath, about Jackie's death and how he'd coped before the other Jackie and Rose came into his life. He hadn't really thought about the connection Pete might feel to Martha, but he could understand that Pete might look at her as a fellow survivor. "She's been doing her bit to undo the damage. She's amazing."

Pete looked up at his friend, a small smile curling the side of his lip. "Yes, I'd say your Dr. Jones is quite amazing. That's why I wish we'd got to her before UNIT; we could have given her the support she needed without the military interference. She would have been protected from Prince."

"You don't know that Pete. Besides," John was starting to see where things were going, "her being here wouldn't have stopped Prince from doing what he did."

"No, but it would have kept her work from being tangled up in his crimes." Pete walked over to the bar and poured a drink. He held out the glass to John, who shook his head, opting instead for a fresh cup of tea. Pete returned to the couch. "We need to find out how her research works, get her in here. But first, we've got to figure out who Prince is working for."

John's eyes flashed over to Pete's. "There's someone else."

"Yes. Someone hidden, although we're closing in fast." He tossed a packet of documents over to John, who kept looking at him curiously as he rifled through the papers.

"Water companies? These are scattered across the country."

"We've been combing through UNIT's communication records—email, phone calls, fax and modem transmissions—and these small companies keep turning up." Pete took a sip of his drink. "We don't get it either, but the money doesn't lie; you'll find the financial trail there too. Took Tosh about an hour once we knew what we were looking for. Prince has been getting payouts from these PLCs for the last three years. Now we're trying to figure out who's holding them all together," he added, finishing the scotch.

"But why would they pay off Prince? What would he have to do with utility contracts?"

"I don't know. I suppose he could have been giving them some scientific advice about safety levels and such, but even that link strains believability." Pete set the glass on the coffee table as he collapsed back into the chair with a heavy sigh. "Regardless, we know that Prince isn't the mastermind here; there's another person linking it all together."

John flipped through the sheets Pete had given him again. "Water companies, water companies," he muttered, "control the water supply. But why—" he stopped, then started rifling through the papers quickly. "There aren't any London companies listed here. Isn't that odd?"

Pete nodded. "We noticed that; Tosh is trying to get access to the records of the larger London-based firms to see if we can isolate any connections to Prince in those."

Jack stuck his head in the room. "We've got something," he said to Pete, and then, noticing John, he teased, "Oh, you finally made it."

John glared at him. The sight of Jack, after Pete's reminder of the horrors Martha had faced, brought back his anger from her memories.

"Don't," he said.

Jack could see that this wasn't a time for joking, and his tone grew serious. "Toshiko is incredible," he told Pete, who smiled and nodded. "Good that you stole her from UNIT." He raised his hand at the two men who were still seated. "Well? C'mon."

They followed him down the hall. John halted as they passed the door he knew led to Rose's office. "Where is she now?" he asked Pete quietly.

"California, I think, although she could be anywhere in the southwestern U.S."

"She OK?"

"She's good. When this is all sorted, I'm sure Jackie will be glad to tell you what's going on with her."

John nodded. Pete put a hand on his shoulder. "She's happy."

"I'm glad."

They'd reached the data lab, where they found Tosh scanning through video footage, the program rapidly searching for facial matches. John squinted at the screen. There was something about the face she was matching, although it was grainy, that seemed familiar to him.

"Time for you to get those eyes checked," Jack remarked, and John scowled at him.

"Here. Let me show you the simulation." Tosh selected several companies whose names John remembered from the list, then typed in a few commands. Instantly they could all see the names move and transform as a web of connections, of lines and squares and circles representing other companies, corporations, conglomerates spread out in a rapidly expanding pattern. When the image stopped growing, it was clear that there was one point of origin in this corporate family tree.

"Luscious Liquids?" Pete asked, and John noted a hint of jealousy in his voice. Luscious was a new company on the scene, and had become Vitex's largest business rival, a reality that had been causing Pete increasing consternation over the years.

Tosh nodded her head. "I've checked a number of the companies, and all roads lead to them." She typed in a few more commands, and the image on the screen was replaced with a corporate fact sheet. "Luscious Liquids, a privately held company, mainly focused in the UK with aspirations toward the European markets. Owned solely by Lucius "Luc" Johnston, one of the most reclusive men in the world." She peered over the top of her glasses at Pete and John before flashing them a saucy smile. "Want to get a look at him?"

Pete looked puzzled. "No one's seen him save a few grainy photographs shot from long distances. Of course," he grinned as he watched her fingers fly over the keyboard, "if anyone could find it—"His voice trailed off as the image Tosh had retrieved resolved.

Pete and John looked at each other, mouths wide open in surprise at the face on the screen before them. Jack was puzzled by their response.

"I take it he's familiar to you," Jack said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"I'll say," Pete replied, and Jack could almost hear a tremor in his voice, a signal of some unknown terror.

Jack looked at John, whose skin was pale in the light of the screen. "So who is he? And why do I get the feeling a director's about to say 'fade to black?'"

Had John been less moved by the face on the screen, he'd have laughed at the statement, but he knew that Jack would be a bit less flippant as soon as he'd heard the name. "That—" he pointed to the screen "—is John Lumic."

###

It had begun years before, when the Cybermen were pressing themselves into existence in the Doctor's universe. John Lumic had been working for Torchwood then, a researcher toiling away in a small, locked laboratory, cataloguing tissue samples as he tried to find the key to accessing human brainwaves. He was the one who'd determined the need for psychic training, and it was he who had given it, hoping that his efforts in this quarter would have garnered him some respect and a promotion. He was thanked, given a new lab assistant, and then largely forgotten, his protocols for training new operatives even being given to those with "better people skills." Always hidden away, always being kept hidden.

When the first wave of Cybermen came, he was terrified. He found them in his laboratory, where they'd entered his dimension. At first he thought they'd kill him, but relaxed as they regarded him with what appeared to be (as far as he could tell from the cyber suits) curious interest. When they explained their origins, and told him of their creator, another John Lumic in another world who'd been incapacitated in a different way, he was willing to listen to more, and then, when the ghost shifts had started in earnest, he'd helped them to hide themselves by faking a restoration project. He was to be their leader once they'd established themselves on this new planet, and he waited and watched until everything had gone horribly wrong.

There were a few of them left, the ones who hadn't crossed the void, who weren't sucked into that hell. They rallied round him, sharing the knowledge of him as their leader. He kept them hidden, they told him of Lumic's past, and as time went on he grew more and more desperate to go to that world, to see what pieces he could pick up to start anew. After that fateful day, he'd found the small yellow disc in the debris, and in the coming years would turn it over again and again, trying to sort out exactly how it had worked and what he could do to get it working again. Then the earth moved, the stars were going out, and on a whim he pressed the button. He found himself in a brave new world, and he set about re-making his double's old connections.

When he found Prince, he was able to really establish himself; the Colonel's status and connections quickly put him in touch with others who could help him to quietly reclaim certain of Lumic's assets and begin to access the stores of Lumic's hidden wealth. He found he had a head for business, which, coupled with his desire to learn and create the new, led him to build a very broad and successful food and beverage conglomerate in a very short time. He steered clear of his double's more prominent former business ventures—no holdings in communications companies at all—and focused himself on the nation's food and drink supply, which he saw as a much better way of insinuating himself into every household in the land. His counterpart, riddled with disease and terrified of the finality of death, had become obsessed with his desire to prolong life. This John Lumic, reborn Luc Johnston, a recluse, was healthy and only obsessed with taking the power that had been denied him in his former world. He'd worked and built and watched and waited. When Prince informed him that Martha Jones had been successful, he knew that his time had come.

###

Pete was on the phone with Mace, who'd called Torchwood as soon as he was informed of Johnston's identity. John was poring through financial records, blueprints for buildings, and bills of lading for various shipments; he was trying to find anything that might hint at what Lumic was planning. Jack was at a nearby terminal studying Lumic's security detail; he needed to sort out the best plan for infiltrating the heavily-guarded compound to extract the man with the least amount of fanfare and loss of life.

"Needles in haystacks," Jack sighed.

"Yeah," John said softly, "too many haystacks." He pushed his chair back from the table and rubbed his tired eyes. "I wonder how Martha's getting on."

"How do you think she's going to take it? About Lumic, I mean."

"I don't know," John sighed, his hand pulling at his cheeks. "I can't imagine she'll be entirely unaffected, but she seems to handle surprises well." _Although I have given her an awful lot to deal with_, he thought, remembering how quiet she was as he finished his tale earlier. He wondered how she was doing now.

"I think we're going to have to bring her in soon," Jack responded. He stood and stretched a bit, his back and limbs uncomfortable from being hunched over the screen. This wasn't his usual workspace.

"What do you know about her research?" John's question was a bit tentative.

"Loads," Jack replied, "but there's not much I can tell you. Her story to share."

"Glad to see you've learned to respect her boundaries," John muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jack's voice was sharp and edged with fear.

"I think you know exactly what I mean." John bit the words. "How could you do that to her?"

"I didn't…I wanted to…I didn't know," Jack stammered. "I thought she'd want to say goodbye."

"For someone from such an advanced point in human civilization, you're pretty thick, aren't you?" John sighed, recalling the Doctor's visit to Rose's past and the horrors that had unleashed. "Didn't it occur to you that you might have changed events? If she'd been a few minutes later, if Martha had detained her longer or got her to change her mind—"

"Well, the reapers weren't going to let that happen, were they?" Jack's voice was bitter. "All of my time in the Time Agency, I was trying to stay one step ahead of them, being dispatched to take care of potential anomalies so that we could keep them at bay. And I almost brought them down on her." He looked over at John. "Things didn't go so well for me after that, but Martha—well, let's just say that even though she had every reason to hate me, she never gave up on me, and she never let me down. I'd known how special she was before, but meeting her, knowing her—I don't want to imagine what will happen if we don't figure out what Lumic's up to." He turned his attention back to the screen.

John was silent for a few moments. He wanted to be angry with Jack, but couldn't find the energy to be, particularly as he could see the hurt in the man's eyes and face, and could hear the longing in his voice as he spoke about Martha. "What about Simon?" he asked, eager to change the subject and get some news of his assistant. "Where is he?"

"Should be packing up now, I suspect," Jack said absently, his brow furrowing as he scanned the screen.

"Packing up? Where's he going?"

"Home." Jack spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He's finished what he came here to do. Time for him to go home."

"And what was it exactly that he came here to do?"

"Don't exactly know that," Jack mused. "Just told me he was done, and he was off, and I told him to give my love to his mom and dad." Jack paused, a worried look crossing his face. "Come to think of it, he was sad when I told him that. I hope Gray is alright."

"What?" John's tone voiced his confusion to Jack, who finally looked up from the monitor.

"Right—you weren't there. Simon's my nephew."

"Nephew?"

Jack nodded. "Surprised me too when he told me; still not used to the idea." He laughed. "Can't believe someone's going to get Gray to settle down."

"So you didn't know him before?"

"No. In my timeline he hasn't been born yet."

"So what was he doing here? Was he trying to find you?"

"No, not me. You. He came here to meet you, to work with you."

"What?" John was incredulous. "Why? Why me?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was not convincing. "Haven't got a clue."

"I don't believe you."

Jack smirked. "Wise man. I may have a small bit of a clue, but I can't tell you, just as he couldn't tell me." Jack smirked at the frustration he could see building on John's face. "Spoilers," he offered, then returned his attention to the screen.

John opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut. Could Jack know her? Nah, he told himself. The universe isn't _that_ small.

They worked for a while more in silence, finding little that they could piece together to make some semblance of a plan. Jack had found a point or two of vulnerability in the security system, but without knowing what scheme Lumic might be hatching, it was difficult to know where to strike and when. They were about to take a break when the phone rang. John looked at the clock. It was 11:30 in the evening, and they knew precious little more than they did before. He answered to find Pete on the other end.

"I think it's time we bring in Dr. Jones, don't you?"

John agreed and hung up the phone. "I need that wrist strap again," he sighed. _If only I could get a nap. _

Jack grinned as he tossed it to him. "Happy to do it myself if you're feeling too old, old man."

John punched in coordinates. "You have no idea." In a flash he was gone.

###

They sat in the car Pete had arranged for them, John reluctant to do another hop to get Martha back to Torchwood; every time he used the strap he was finding it more and more difficult to shake off the physical discomfort. The backpack containing her notes and the computer were on the floor near his feet. Martha was snuggled up at his side, her head resting on his shoulder. The drive was an indulgence, but he wanted this time to speak to her before they entered the building, to give her time to collect her thoughts and, if necessary, her emotions before taking the next steps.

He'd told her about Lumic shortly after he'd found her in the kitchen. She'd gone ashen from the shock, and he'd packed the bag while she sat silently reflecting and processing the information he'd given her. When he was done, he'd brushed her cheek and gently probed her mind to see if she was ready to talk. _Martha?_

_I'm alright. Just thinking. How many of them are out there, how many parallel worlds?_

_I don't know_, John thought, _but it's not beyond the realm of possibility that he'll be in all or most of them._

She nodded. _If he can still be around—do you think that she might be as well?_ Martha gave him a weak smile. His expression was grim, and she knew that in his world, at least, Adeola hadn't survived either. "Somewhere," she whispered, and she took the hand he offered and walked with him to the car.

On the drive over he explained what they'd found out about Lumic's holdings, and she shared her discoveries as well. It didn't take long for either of them to piece together the disparate bits—the water treatment plants, the formula, the minds of the people of England—and they called ahead to get Torchwood working on analyzing water samples. Martha had also called Tish and arranged for her to be brought to the Torchwood offices by one of the guards at her family home. She had a feeling she'd need her expertise with public affairs, especially if, as John had told her, that reporter was going to be present.

Now, with Martha pressed against his side, John was especially glad they'd taken Pete's car and driver. Between the excitement of the day and its attendant weariness, he longed for the comfort that just holding her brought him, and hoped that his presence was comforting to her too. He pressed the button to raise the dark glass, shielding them from the driver's view. He felt Martha start a bit at the gesture, then relax into him as she took his left hand in hers, twining her fingers with his. He kissed the top of her head, and she shifted to sit across his lap, eliciting first a chuckle, then a soft moan as she began kissing the nape of his neck. "I missed you," he whispered. She responded by pressing her lips to his for an intense kiss.

Twenty minutes later they realized the car had stopped and was idling patiently. John could feel Martha smiling up at him while she kissed him languidly. He had pinned her to the leather seats before sliding into her, and they'd tried to keep their voices quiet so as not to embarrass the driver. They'd been successful up to the moment of Martha's, then John's, release, and though they'd tried to muffle the sounds of their pleasure, John was certain that Martin would be reluctant to bring him anywhere again. John chuckled softly as he kissed at Martha's neck and cheek, then slowly slipped from her body. He pulled his pants back to his waist and fastened them while Martha quickly replaced her own clothing. In the dim light from the garage, they stole furtive glances at one another, trying to keep themselves from erupting in a fit of giggles.

"Got a bit carried away there," Martha said sheepishly.

"How could I not," he replied. He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. Martha shuddered in an echo of pleasure.

###

Jack noted the extra spring in John's step when he and Martha walked into the conference room, and while he felt a pang of jealousy, he couldn't hold onto it for too long when he saw how happy Martha was. She was happy to see him too, embracing him in a hug that seemed too large to have come from her tiny frame. Shortly afterward they were joined by the assembled team, and there were no smiles around the table, only worried faces intent on solving what was turning out to be a very complicated problem.

Reports were coming in from operatives around the country; most of the water supply was clean. In some isolated areas they'd located supplies for the accelerator, but they appeared to not have been added to the treatment cycle yet. Martha was reminded of the mood in her home as they'd watched the results coming in from the last presidential election, only now she was in the thick of the counting, not just observing, and the stakes felt higher than the results of any popular vote. She was glad to have Tish with her; in the past three days she'd been pulled from everything familiar, and her sister's presence was a point of solace and comfort. It didn't hurt that she knew Tish would look out for her personally and professionally. Martha could see that Tish was already drafting a plan to contain any negative publicity that might come out of the events of the day. She rarely got a chance to see Tish at work, but it was easy to understand why she was so successful; she might seem a bit flighty during her off-hours, but when she was on the clock, she was cool and focused.

One by one Tosh crossed off the names of the various water treatment facilities owned by Luscious, and with each red strikethrough the mood in the room began to lighten a bit. Tish was focusing on long, not short-range, plans, and John considered sneaking off with Martha for a bit of a nap. The sun was rising and Jake went out for pastries and coffees. Everyone was in good spirits; even Ianto was relaxing his usually stoic demeanor, and John could have sworn he saw the slightest hint of a blush creep into his cheek when he caught Jack staring at him from across the room.

When the word came in, finally, from the tiny village of Cholderton, the group didn't quite know whether to laugh or cry. It made perfect sense to Martha; an isolated community was well suited for Johnston's (she refused to utter his other name) plan. They made an ideal control group—limited contact with the larger country, insular, relatively stable population—and were unlikely to be aware enough of the changes occurring in their midst until it was too late to do anything about it. There was no way to tell exactly how much exposure the residents of the small village had had to the accelerator, but given the levels of the chemicals present in the drinking water supply, Martha had to assume that in the best case, the average resident would have received a double dosage of the drug daily for as long as it had been in the water.

"Alright Dr. Jones. Tell us—how does it work?" John was surprised at the stern tone in Pete's voice.

Martha addressed the assembly at the table as she'd done dozens of times before in meetings with UNIT officials. "The accelerator helps the growth of neural pathways in the brain's communication centers; these paths are open to telepathic communications, but mainly underdeveloped in the normal mind. We had to find something natural—the chips do a similar extension, but do it almost instantaneously, which can be dangerous. We wanted a sustainable development, more like an evolution, really. The accelerator was the answer, and it's been remarkably successful."

"So that's it? Just 'drink me' and you're open?" Jake seemed unimpressed, but became a bit more interested in his coffee when Pete glared at him from the end of the conference table.

"Well, it takes time for the synapses to grow and mature, and we felt it important to introduce the changes as gradually as possible. We kept the dosage levels low to give our subjects time to adjust. All the accelerator does is open the mind to reception and transmission of thought processes." She paused and gave a weak smile. "Looking back, that was the easy part. Learning to control it took time."

Martha continued. "The mouth, tongue, teeth, and lips had to learn at some point in human evolution how to project and control sound, like the brain had to learn to translate it. We don't notice it at all because we've always just worked that way, but the scientific community knows from studies and experience that sometimes those connections break down, causing a variety of communication problems typically associated with various disabilities. To help speed the body's acclimation process, we taught our subjects, through physical and mental training exercises, how to open their bodies to send and receive transmissions, and how to close themselves off from unwanted ones. We went beyond how the chip protocols worked; they really just create open portals with a strong predisposition to follow telepathic input."

"But it's just a predisposition, right?" Tosh asked. "Someone with an implant could refuse, couldn't they?"

Martha shook her head. "In theory, yes, but as we all know from our varied experiences," her eyes glanced around the table, "pain is a great motivator, and the pain of the chip if one refuses is utterly unbearable." She noted the grim set of John's jaw, and reached under the table to grasp his hand. _It's not your fault._ He relaxed a bit, but she knew they'd have to talk about the soldiers later.

Martha looked around the table. "I don't understand, though. If the real plan was to make the accelerator on this grand a scale, why even bother with the chip?"

John was quick to respond. "Well, remember—Prince wanted to build an army. Different purpose, different mechanism. Of course, he was merely a pawn in a larger game, wasn't he? But Lumic wanted to live forever, so why—" he stopped. Different bodies, different motivations.

"He's playing the long game." Pete leaned forward and began tapping the table in Tosh's direction. "Tosh, take a look at any political contributions he's made in the last twelve months."

Jack was confused. "Politics? You think this is about politics?"

John pushed his chair away from the table, his arms extending across it, palms flat. "No. It's about power." He looked toward Pete. "It's always about power in the end, isn't it?" Everyone in the room could hear the blend of anger and sadness in his voice and could see it echoed in Pete's melancholy expression and slight nod.

"What does this mean for my family?" asked Martha, and Tish put her arm around her sister, sensing the worry that was simmering so close to the edge.

"I think they'll be alright now." Pete sighed, then addressed Ianto. "A small detail watching the family members for a few days, just to be safe."

"That's it? They've been locked up, terrified, for two days. Are you sure?" Martha could hear the stress in Tish's voice, and while she was thrilled to hear that Pete felt they were out of danger, she too was concerned that he could be mistaken.

Pete nodded vigorously. "He's not looking to kill anyone; that's not how Lumic operates. Blackmail, espionage, experimental procedures on unsuspecting populations—definitely. But your family won't be his target; he has nothing to gain from them, or, frankly, from you, Martha, at this point."

Martha's face belied her confusion. "But he's using my—"

"Yes, he's using your formula—which he has, thanks to the Colonel—and he doesn't need you, except as a scapegoat. He's playing a long game, and we're going to have to play along with him."

Tish smiled. "I love a long game. What's the plan?" She took in the worried look on Martha's face. "Don't worry, sis." She winked. "I've got you covered."

Martha stared at the table, the various numbers and chemical compositions of her formula swimming before her eyes, which were now filling with tears of frustration, anger, and fear. She felt utterly small and helpless, and the one thing that was hers, her career and work, was in jeopardy, had been just taken by this man with the face of her enemy. Her heart sank as she thought of the people of the village who'd become unwitting participants of a massive bit of experimentation; when they started demonstrating signs of synaptic development, they'd panic, or worse, become easily led sheep, ripe for whatever he was planning. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes as she felt Tish squeeze her right hand and John her left.

_It'll be alright, Martha. I'd trust Pete with my life._

Martha nodded and opened her eyes. "Right. What do you need me to do?"

###

Pete's plan, while simple, would take time to develop. They couldn't touch Johnston; there was no way to prove that he'd done anything technically illegal; even if they could procure evidence that he or his organization had introduced the chemical, the elements wouldn't technically meet the definitional requirements for a dangerous agent. Exposure would jeopardize Martha and her work; her name was linked with the research and the purchase of the chemicals, and Jack was adamant that her work continue lest the timeline be broken. Enough people around the table understood the importance of fixed points, and while Tosh thought it smacked a bit too much of predestination, she trusted in John and Pete enough to trust in Jack.

"So you'll go to the village, Martha, you, your sister—" Pete paused to glance at John "—whoever you need, whatever resources you need, and you'll find out just how much exposure they've had. Once we know that, we can decide which plan of a number of equally bad ones is best." Pete exhaled, then glanced at Jack, who was fiddling with the wrist strap. "Captain Harkness? I'll need your assistance here while Dr. Jones is away; we have surveillance needs and could use your help with…precision strikes." Jack pursed his lips then nodded his assent.

"Miss Jones?" Tish nodded, eager to get to work. Most of her clients were high-profile businessmen; this was an opportunity to do something much larger and grander and she was especially keen to help out Martha. "You'll work with Ms. Smith; you're now our press liaison. She'll be expecting to speak with your sister first thing tomorrow morning." Tish nodded, then gave Martha a reassuring smile. "I need you to bring in your best assistant so that you can travel with your sister."

Pete continued to give out tasks; Ianto was to setup an "invisible" perimeter around the village and to secure the space and equipment Martha would need for her work, Tosh had plenty of seeking and searching through various databanks to get the fullest picture of the intricate web of Johnston's holdings, and Jake was assigned to assist Jack in his missions.

Within minutes the conference table was nearly vacant, everyone having returned to their various workspaces to prepare. Pete, Martha, Tish, and John remained. The quiet in the room increased the tension around the table. There were a few more things Pete needed to know.

"This is dangerous, you understand that?"

Martha nodded.

"Not the kind of dangerous we thought before—this has the potential to be much worse."

Martha closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I can stop it if I have to."

"I thought you might be able to," Pete said quietly. "What does it entail?"

"There's a reversal formula; it inhibits any new synaptic growth."

John squeezed Martha's left hand. "Are there any side effects?"

She covered her mouth with her right hand and closed her eyes for a moment, then placed her hand over the sheaf of papers before her. "It halts new development. In a mature human, that's not so bad, but there will be children affected in that village." Martha's eyes met Pete's. "It wasn't supposed to be released, not yet, not for a while. I was about to go on holiday for three months, to relax and get ready for the next round of protocols." She shook her head and gripped John's hand tightly; he could almost feel her drawing strength from him, and he was happy to give it to her. "It's not the holiday—understand that—it's the timing. We've just verified the stability of the entire process; we're not ready for anything this massive, for the variables in this type of population, homogeneous as it is."

Pete rested his elbows on the table, his fingers tented against his lips. "You'll leave for Cholderton in two days. Will that give you enough time to prepare?"

"Yes, although I'll need to prepare a few testing protocols before I leave. Is there a laboratory here that I can use?"

"Of course," Pete smiled, "and if you give Ianto a list of items you need before you leave, we'll have everything ready for you tomorrow morning. Why don't you and your sister find him ? He'll show you to your workspaces, get your list, and then you can go home and get some rest."

Martha, John, and Tish collected the various notes and papers spread around them, then began to make their way to the door. Pete's voice stopped them as he called out.

"Your first test subject, Dr. Jones? Why did they volunteer?"

Martha stiffened at the question, and John thought back to his earlier conversation with Pete. A flash of memory brought to mind a darkness passing through Martha's eyes, and he felt a strange thrill at the idea of this woman housing some mystery. He reached up to touch her, but she turned to face Pete, and his hand hung in the air for a moment before returning to his side.

"It was a dark time, and she thought she had nothing to lose." Martha's voice was calm, and while John could tell that she was still tense, she was also utterly in control.

"I'm glad it worked out so well for her, then. Perhaps now she might see things differently." He gave Martha a terse smile, and she and Tish left to find Ianto. Pete motioned for John to follow him to his office.

###

Twenty minutes and two drinks later, Pete finally broke the silence. "This wasn't quite what I was expecting." He and John sat in the office, waiting for Martha and Tish to finish giving Ianto instructions. "Your adventures are usually a bit more—"he paused, searching for the word, then gave up—"adventuresome than this."

"Ah, well, Pete, this is really your bailiwick, isn't it? Business, politics, spin control. We'll have to keep an eye on Lumic, though; we may not be able to touch him, but he's too powerful to ignore." John stared at the carpet, the glass cool and heavy in his hand. He'd been brooding over this mystery of Martha, wondering what that exchange between she and Pete had been about.

"The whole of England," Pete sighed from his desk as he took a swig of his drink. He was looking at the sales figures for Luminous Liquids, whose sales had surpassed Vitex's in the space of 2 years. He'd left a vacuum in the market when he'd shifted his attentions to Torchwood, and while that work had been necessary, he couldn't help but feeling some measure of responsibility for giving this monster such a wide field in which to range. Millions of people across the country could have suffered without ever knowing why.

"Well," Pete said as he rose to sit near the couch. "If nothing else, we'll have to expose the extent of his control over the water supply to DEFRA. That should keep him occupied for a while, long enough at least for us to get Letitia and Martha in place." He took a drink from the glass. "What will you do?"

"Me? Same old life. Why should anything change?" John looked into his glass, a glum expression on his face as he considered what was coming for Martha, how busy her life was going to be, how little room there might be for him in it. "Will have to find another assistant. Got any lying about?"

Pete patted him on the back and took the empty glass from his hand. "Start small," he said. "Take the girl home—the car is waiting for you downstairs. See how you feel in the morning." He motioned over to the door, where John saw Martha standing, handbag on her shoulder, backpack at her feet. She looked tired, but peaceful, and John couldn't take his eyes from hers as he rose to meet her.

Pete watched them walk out, then picked up the phone. "Jacks?" His voice was tired, all the vigor he'd previously displayed gone at the sound of the one voice he trusted. "Everything's alright. I'm coming home." He hung up the phone, shut off the lights, and left the room.

###

Martha and John sat next to each other, with Tish on the seat opposite. Martin had put the dark window up before they'd even entered the car, and John's head was too filled with questions to be amused by the gesture or its implications. They'd simply given him the address of Martha's mother's home and settled in for the drive. Tish was already on the phone, making calls to secure the help of her most able assistant.

John took Martha's left hand and gave it a small squeeze. _You OK?_

She nodded, and he could see that she'd put a wall up; she could hear him, but he wouldn't be able to see into her.

_Do you want to talk about it? What's bothering you, I mean?_

Martha shook her head, and in his mind John saw a thick rope thinning and breaking apart.

_I'm here when you're ready, Martha. I'm not going anywhere._

Martha could feel a gentle warmth envelop her mind, and she raised her right hand to brush away the tear that had escaped at the shock of that feeling. _Thank you. I'm sorry; I just need to think for a while, that's all._ From the corner of her eye, she could see him nod, and they sat holding hands in silence for the remainder of the drive.

When they arrived at Francine's, Tish, who'd been busy, but not blind on the ride home, surprised John by giving him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek before entering the house. Martin remained stoically focused on the road before him as Martha and John sat in the car.

"Are you going to be alright?" John stroked Martha's arm gently.

"Yes. I just need some rest, a little time to think." She gave him a smile as she reached up to touch his hair. "You could use a little rest too." She leaned in to kiss him, and they lingered a few moments, Martha considering just returning to John's flat. She might not get as much actual rest as she would at her mother's, but the exercise might do her good as well.

Her sister's voice calling her from the front door broke the mood. Martha sighed as she rested her forehead against John's. "Call me tonight?"

John grinned. "Sure. But you'll have to give me your number first."

Martha laughed as she fished a business card from her handbag. She wrote her mobile number on the back, then handed him the card, the pen, and another card. "Give me yours?"

She watched as his hand created the same neat and looping script she'd seen in the blue book, which was secure in the bag with her papers.

When he'd finished, he put the cap on the pen and handed it to her, then kissed the card with a flourish before slipping it into the handbag as he gave her one last kiss. "I've had a lovely time with you, Martha Jones," he whispered, his shoulders sinking a bit. "It's going to be a very long afternoon."

She stepped out onto the pavement and took the bag that he handed to her, then closed the door. He immediately put the window down, and she chuckled as she leaned against the door frame to give him just one more kiss. "Rest up, mister. I've got plans for you." She winked, stood, and walked into the house. John smirked and shook his head a bit as he watched her walk away, then knocked on the interior window to signal for Martin to leave. He settled into the seat and stared at the small card in the palm of his hand. A very strange adventure. Smith and Jones. Not time, not space, but right here on earth, in London.

His flat was quiet and cool when he entered, and it felt strange to be surrounded by so much silence in the middle of the day. After getting a glass of water from the kitchen, he started down the hallway to his bedroom. Halfway down the hall, he stopped, then took a piece of chalk from the office, grinning as he made his note on the wall. He sensed a busy night was ahead, and he wanted to make the most of it. He pulled the curtain in the room and settled into bed.


	14. Chapter 14: and be my love

Refreshed from her nap and a long soak in the tub, Martha dried off slowly, luxuriating in the feeling of her mother's plush towels. When she was dry, she wrapped herself in a thick bathrobe, then surveyed the collection of scented lotions and oils her mother kept on the dressing table in the master bathroom. After selecting a jasmine scented lotion, she returned to her bedroom.

Martha enjoyed small physical indulgences; they were all she could usually give herself time to experience between her busy work schedule and her travels with Jack. She poured a bit of the lotion in her hands while surveying her feet, and sighed over the missed spa appointment. She felt the slightest bit of guilt for wanting that indulgence, but as she massaged the lotion into her skin, she felt the waning tension of the last few days finally leaving her body for good. The rest and the hot bath had gone a long way to relaxing her, and this final indulgence would restore her so that she could deal with what was ahead.

Two thousand people lived in that village, each a part of a family, each part of the larger community. Martha was anxious about what she'd find there; regardless of how much or how little exposure the villagers had received to the accelerator, they were unlikely to be excited once they were told exactly what had been in the water they'd consumed. Panic, fear, and outrage were the most likely emotions she'd be dealing with, and Martha took comfort in the knowledge that her sister would accompany her on the journey. She wouldn't have to do this alone.

But no time to dwell on what was to come; Martha focused on the moment, and at the moment she was feeling relaxed and she was alone, her mother and sister having gone to the shops while she slept. She smoothed the lotion into the skin of her calves, then her thighs. She grinned mischievously before slipping out of the bathrobe, then resumed her personal anointing. Martha focused on the skin of her arms, lingering at the elbows, her fingers rolling over the soft skin covering the hard protuberance of bone. _Hard and soft angles,_ she thought, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as her experience of her own body became linked to her memories of John's. As she ran her hands over her shoulders, she warmed at the remembered feeling of his feathery kisses there, of his tongue plying the skin at the nape of her neck before his teeth began to gently nibble at her. Her hands slid down the front of her neck, and her fingers stroked the clavicle before resting at the hollow of her throat, a spot he had yet to exploit, but one to which she couldn't wait to introduce him.

She warmed more lotion in her hands before relaxing against the pillows as she rubbed the lotion on her belly. Her fingers circled her navel and she toyed with it as John had, exploiting her sensitivity there until it began to radiate outward. Her hands slid up her torso; when her fingers brushed the skin at the bottom of her breasts, she lightly stroked them before focusing all of her attention on teasing her nipples as they stiffened. A small moan escaped her throat, her skin longing for John's tongue and lips and the heat of his breath.

One hand remained to mind the shop while the other went exploring for hidden treasures, her fingers gently smoothing and twirling the curls between her legs before circling her now-wet entrance. She pushed aside the technical terms, preferring instead to indulge in the words she could hear herself whispering in John's ear as she imagined some future time when he'd position his head there, when he'd circle her clit with his tongue and suck until it swelled, when he'd thrust his tongue into her pussy, tasting and teasing her.

Martha traced and rubbed and plunged her fingers into her body as she invoked the feeling of his cock filling and stroking her. She imagined the weight of him atop her, his mouth claiming hers while he thrust into her, building the ball of energy at the base of her spine. She hovered there and allowed her breathing to calm for a moment, wanting to draw the experience out just a bit longer. Martha delighted in the tension as she conjured phantom images of another body which was now becoming so familiar to her.

Across town, in a third floor flat in a nondescript London building, John struggled against the surface of consciousness, wanting to remain in the delicious dream world he'd been inhabiting. His hand had slipped beneath the waistband of his pyjamas and was sliding along the slippery surface of his cock, while his tongue and mouth hungered for the taste of smooth skin and his nose filled with the scent of jasmine, everywhere jasmine. Intoxicated, he reveled in the sensations produced by the dream and the memory of her body and her skin. As he stroked himself, he tried to conjure the taste of her, longing to dip and plunge his tongue into her as he breathed in her scent. Jasmine, everywhere jasmine—

—and she could hold it back no longer, the pressure spreading from the base of her spine through her buttocks and thighs, the small, swollen kernel of her sex poised to explode as soon as she gave it permission. He convulsed as she pressed the button, their climax hitting them in waves that resounded over rooftops across the city.

Martha curled the soft cotton bathrobe around her body as she coaxed the aftershocks to their end. A slow smile spread across her lips, and she wondered whether John would accompany her to the village. She felt a surge of teen-aged energy and desire pulsing through her, then a flash of anxiety when she thought he might not call. She laughed after a moment, the woman returned, still desirous, still hungry, but secure in her self-worth. _It's this room,_ she thought. She'd spent almost half her life away from this room, and while most of the more childish items had been removed, it still felt like the bedroom of a young girl, not a grown woman. Not where she wanted to be, really, but this is where she'd have to be for a while.

John stroked his button-less belly, his breathing returning to normal after a few moments. Fully awake now, he marveled at the intensity of the physical sensations he'd experienced. He shivered a bit as his body cooled; the air in the room was chilly against his sweat-dampened clothing. The scent of jasmine was now fading, and while he struggled to hold on to the sensory memory, he knew that he had to have the real thing again soon.

He tugged the bed covers higher as he turned to his side and pulled the pillow closer. His eyes were trained on the space where Martha had lain the day before, a stray hair still clinging to her pillow, the faint hint of coconut from that shampoo on the case. He placed his hand on the cool fabric and wondered what she was doing at that moment, if she'd had a restful afternoon. Waking to such an intense manifestation of her memory had shocked him; he knew that he was becoming attached to her, but this seemed almost a bit too strong an attachment, a bit too sudden.

She'd be leaving in a day or so anyway, and he knew that he might not see her for several weeks, if not months. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He considered how quiet the flat was, how silent and empty when it had so recently been so full of life.

The clock read six p.m. He rolled toward the bedside table to retrieve her card before rising to go to the living room. He'd promised to call that evening, and after that dream, he wanted to hear her voice.

###

Francine and Tish had returned from their excursion with clothing and shoes for Martha, takeaway for supper, and a host of questions about the events of the last two days. As she sat at the family table, Martha smiled, joyous to be with her loved ones, her father and Leo having come for a late supper to celebrate her survival and return. When the inevitable tense conversation between Francine and Leo regarding his latest love interest overtook the mood, Martha rose to clear the dinner things and put on the kettle and a pot of coffee. She then prepared a plate of biscuits and cut a few slices of the cake Clive had picked up from the local bakery. John was coming for a late dessert, and she wanted things to be perfect.

He'd called shortly after she'd recovered from her explorations, his voice low and hoarse, a nice complement to her own throaty response to his greeting, and she'd wondered whether he'd been up to similar shenanigans after his nap. A frisson of pleasure had run down her spine every time he'd said her name over the phone, and he'd seemed to repeat it more than necessary during their short conversation. On impulse she'd suggested he come to the house after supper, and he'd quickly accepted.

Her mother and Tish had returned almost simultaneous to the end of the phone call, and after the initial hugs, worried questions, and strong reassurances, Francine had turned her attention to the "recent unpleasantness" and the question she'd been turning over since her daughter had called her the previous afternoon. She'd been relieved that her family was safe, but Francine was also annoyed that they'd been so put upon for several days. "I certainly hope that UNIT will compensate us and you for this misery, especially the loss of your possessions and your home," she'd said. "I've already contacted your cousin Oliver, and he's looking into grounds for suit if necessary."

Martha had seen Tish rolling her eyes in sympathy, and she'd smiled wanly at her mother. It was no good to argue when she was in this sort of mood, and though she was thirty, at times Martha still relied on the methods of coping with her mother she'd developed in her teen years. Better to sit this one out.

"So," Francine had moved to the next topic, her hands resting on either side of the mug she'd set on the kitchen table, "who is the stranger?"

Martha had blushed as Tish shot a knowing glance from her position at the counter, and Francine had taken a sip of her tea while her eyes had remained focused on Martha's face. She wanted the best for her children, and while Tish had seemed enthusiastic about the dark-haired man she'd seen Martha kissing from the kitchen window, Francine remembered the urgency in her daughter's voice when she'd asked about her father.

Martha'd accepted the cup of tea that Tish had offered her, and carefully considered her answer as she'd taken a sip. "His name is John Smith and he saved my life."

Francine had nodded, and was about to ask another question when Martha continued talking.

"He's an investigator, sometimes works with Torchwood. He's kind, brave, gentle, passionate—" Tish had raised a brow at this note "—caring, intelligent, and resourceful. You can find out more tonight, as I've asked him to come later for dessert."

Martha had swallowed a drink of her tea while the awkward silence settled around the table. Tish had stared intently at her mug, desperate to contain the laugh that threatened to erupt from her lips at the sight of her mother's shocked face. Francine had alternated between anger at her daughter's impertinence and pride at her audacity; she'd always felt that her middle child could be a bit more conciliatory than was healthy. She'd decided to land on the side of the latter, and had reached her hand across the table to clasp Martha's.

"Call your father and ask him to pick up a cake from Cassini's," she'd said. "We want to make a good first impression."

The sound of the doorbell shook Martha from her memory, and she smiled as she brought the tray of cake and biscuits out to the table. The argument had quieted with the ringing of the bell; she hoped that all would go smoothly.

###

John paid the cab driver, then walked up the stairs to the front door. In his hand he held a bottle of wine, and he could hear the familiar sounds of a Jones family row through the glass panes surrounding the doorframe. He sighed, bracing himself for the inevitable tensions as he lifted his finger to press the bell.

He was hopeful when he saw Clive and Francine open the door together, thinking that perhaps the marriage was at least intact, until they'd introduced themselves. The way that Francine called Clive "Martha's father" more clearly communicated the status of their relationship than the missing rings on their hands did. The greetings were at least cordial, and Clive took John's coat while Francine graciously accepted the wine before leading John to the dining room where the family waited.

He received an enthusiastic handshake from Leo, was grateful for Tish's warm hug, and could barely contain himself as he kissed Martha's cheek, the now-erotic scent of jasmine wafting from her skin. He willed the desire surging through him to control itself, and he was pleased to finally be seated at the table, Martha to his right, while Leo and Tish sat opposite. Francine and Clive managed to take their respective spots at the ends of the table in a sort of carefully orchestrated détente.

John was glad to have Clive at his end; this Francine was as formidable as the other one, and Clive's jovial personality put him a bit more at ease, even with the tension surrounding the relationship.

No one at the table really believed Martha and John's tame version of the story of the last two days, the furtive glances and lingering brushes of fingers and arms between the new pair clearly indicating more intense moments in their very short past. In fact, by the time the final cup of tea had been swallowed and the last crumb of cake consumed, four of the five Joneses felt like vestigial appendages at the table. John and Martha had answered many questions, had shared a few daring stories, but by the end of the conversation, it was clear that the only speaking they wanted to do was meant for the privacy of a room with closed doors.

Francine came into the kitchen as Martha and Tish were finishing the washing up. She slipped a house key into Martha's pocket. "Just in case you decide to go out," she said, and Martha stiffened with surprise and a bit of embarrassment. "Just wait until your father leaves; indulge him a bit." Martha swallowed hard and nodded, and Tish finally erupted in peals of laughter as her mother left the kitchen to return to their guest.

###

John's hand ached a bit from the vigorous and tight handshake Clive had given him as he'd said goodnight. Leo and Tish had left shortly after he did, deciding to share a cab ride home to, he assumed, compare notes. As Francine prepared to lock the house for the night, she'd softened the somewhat hard look in her eyes as she took his hand and thanked him for taking such good care of her daughter. He'd been silent from the shock of the depth of feeling in her voice, and had smiled not a little as she pulled him into a warm hug. He sat on the couch while Martha said her goodnights to her mother, turning over the evening's events in his mind.

The family was much the same, well, the same as they would have been had they not spent a year under the sadistic thumb of the Master. Clive wasn't in a relationship with a young gold-digger, but the tension between him and his ex-wife was palpable. They'd put on a good front for Martha's sake, but he could tell that cold hostility simmered just beneath the surface. Tish was warm, but uninterested in the mainly scientific discussion that he, Leo and Martha engaged in around the table. Leo was charming as ever, and John was pleased that he'd got the chance to get to know something of the family in a relaxed setting. They may not be perfect, but they were real, warm-hearted and generous people. The gooey chocolate cake had been an added bonus.

"Ahem."

He looked up to see Martha standing before him, her hand extended as she cleared her throat. He took her hand, then surprised her by pulling her onto his lap. She yelped, then giggled as she settled into her new seat, and he could feel his arousal quickly growing from her proximity and movement. He buried his nose in the side of her neck and inhaled deeply, the jasmine triggering a primal urge that only grew in intensity as she began to lightly scratch at the tender flesh on the back of his neck.

He groaned before rasping out the word "jasmine."

"Mmm, yes. You like it?" She smiled and kissed his neck again. "One of my favorite scents."

"I could smell it," he moaned. "Earlier—when I woke—it was everywhere."

"Everywhere?" Martha pulled away in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Everywhere—in my bedroom, in my flat—I smelled jasmine." He was thoughtful for a moment. "I believe, Martha Jones, that you were projecting."

Martha wanted to kiss the crinkle in his brow, but restrained herself. "Projecting? What—my thoughts?"

He nodded. "Yes—thoughts, feelings—" he paused, then quirked an eyebrow upward "—desires—"

Martha's downcast eyes and the blush rising in her cheek signaled her embarrassment.

"Martha, what were you doing before I called?"

Her eyes shot to meet his and she said, a bit reluctantly, he thought, "I took a bath, and then—"

"And then?"He stroked her back to encourage her.

"Well," she began, her voice coy as she touched his sideburns with her finger, "hot water takes a lot of moisture out of your skin."

"Yes." His fingers burned a slow trail up her spine.

"So I try to replace what's taken as soon as I can." She lowered her head and planted small kisses along his jaw line before whispering in his ear. "Today I made sure to get the full body treatment." She pulled back, her eyes challenging him as she placed her fingers at his temple to share the memory.

_He was in her childhood bedroom, on a bed almost too small for a fully grown person, a room too young for an adult, but the sensations running through his body were not the feelings of a child. The lotion was cool and sweet in his hands, which were stroking and lingering over his chest until he could resist no longer, moving them down his torso and belly, imagining Martha's mouth kissing a trail downward until she was licking and sucking—_

"I want you," he groaned softly, pulling himself from the experience of memory so that he could indulge in reality.

"I know," she half-snickered, half-moaned, as she wriggled her arse over his crotch.

He rested his forehead on her shoulder, his breathing becoming increasingly rapid and strained. "Tease," he whimpered, before brushing at her mind. _Come home?_

The question hung between them, Martha uncertain whether he'd forgotten a word or two, John wondering why he'd stopped there.

_Come home with me?_ he asked again quickly. He hoped that she couldn't see the flush in his skin.

Martha considered the question for the briefest of moments, then kissed him slowly before answering. "Let me get my things. I'll be back in a minute."

He nodded and called for a cab while he waited for her to return. He thought about the words he'd said to her, and what they revealed to him. "Come home," he'd asked, and he'd meant it exactly as it must have seemed to her in that instant, that he was inviting her into his home, offering her a place there. The ache he'd felt on waking and coming down from the high of just the thought of her had not dissipated, and the experience of her memory had only intensified it; he yearned to enter the flat with her at his side, his companion.

_This must be genetic,_ he thought, _a bit of the Doctor hardwired into me. Always looking for a companion. Always afraid of being alone._ He hoped, however, that it wasn't just a remnant of the Doctor, that the longing he now felt indicated something less isolated and interior, not so cold and scientific as genetic predisposition, but a richer, warmer, deeper connection developing between him and Martha.

###

The cab ride was uneventful, the lack of a shield between passengers and driver keeping John's hands from roaming too far over Martha's frame. They talked quietly instead, Martha's head resting on John's shoulder, John's arm holding her close enough that they could simply murmur to one another.

"Loads to do in the morning," Martha said.

"Can you reschedule with Sarah Jane?"

Martha nodded. "Tish told me that she's already agreed to postpone for a couple of hours." She grinned when she felt John shift his body in surprise, and she lifted her eyes to meet his. "Perceptive one, my sister, and when it comes to her work, always one step ahead. Besides, once my mum slipped me that housekey, Tish figured she'd just take care of the inevitable."

John let her words sink in for a moment, then slowly asked, "What do you mean your mum slipped you a housekey?"

Martha giggled. "She has eyes and she knew that I was unlikely to stay at her house tonight, so she made sure I'd have a way out—or back in."

"Interesting. It's not every day that a mother is practically pushing her daughter into illicit activity." He allowed his hand to drift in the direction of Martha's breast.

"Well, I am thirty," she replied, gently moving his hand back to rest on her arm, "and I think she's just happy to see me doing something other than working."

"Too bad you're off in a couple of days," John sighed.

"Why bad? Cholderton's not that far away. And besides," her voice grew playful as she started gently stroking his knee, "I'm sure Pete will spring for a room big enough for the both of us."

John froze, his heart pounding from the unexpected inclusion in her plans. "You want me to come with you?"

"Of course—I mean, if you want to, that is." Martha realized that they hadn't discussed this, and she hoped he didn't feel cornered by her assumption that he'd accompany her to the village.

"Oh yes!" he said, with a relish that nearly spooked the driver. "You, me, the fresh clean air. Stonehenge is nearby—did you know that? Haven't been there in, oooo, centuries."

She laughed, relieved and caught up in his enthusiasm, and pulled him into a kiss. The cabbie kept his eyes on the road, eager to get this fare dropped off. He'd certainly had his share of odd birds, but none of them spoke of time in such large units.

###

They'd wasted precious little time when they'd arrived at John's flat, as evidenced by the pile of clothing near the flat's front door. They were panting on the couch, Martha resting slightly on top of John, who'd landed on his back when she'd push him down before mounting him. Their coupling was rough, frantic, and hungry, a greedy appetizer for a banquet that would extend well into the night. John's fingers slipped along Martha's side, while she rubbed his belly as she rested her head against his chest.

"I think I'm going to take my time next go," he murmured, and she nodded and mumbled, "you'd better."

"Oi!" he cried, lightly patting her bottom before giving her a pinch. She wiggled just a touch, and he started to wonder what little kinks Dr. Jones might be interested in exploring. "Who pushed whom onto the couch before ravishing his helpless frame?"

She lifted her head to meet the challenge in his eyes. "Oh, I don't know. I could ask whose hands kept pulling whose hips onto his cock while yelling, 'Faster, Martha, faster!'"

"Touché," he nodded, then stroked the back of her head before kissing her.

On their way to the bedroom they stopped in the kitchen to procure a bottle of wine, grapes, cheese, and glasses. Martha ran a bath, dropping in the scented oils she'd included in the bag, while John arranged the tray on the bed before uncorking the bottle and pouring the wine. He brought a glass to her, then joined her in the tub, seating himself between her legs while he rested his head at her chest. They shared the glass slowly, savoring the wine and the sensation of the slick scented water against their skin.

Martha took a drink before handing him the glass. "Two baths in one day. I'm going to be a prune if I'm not careful."

"Mmmm, can't have that." John placed the wineglass on the floor next to the tub. "What can I do to help?"

She drummed her fingers softly against his chest, then dipped her hand into the slick water to smooth it on his skin, her fingers gently stroking the still-bruised site of his recent injuries. "I did remember to pack that jasmine lotion. I have a hard time reaching my back, though."

"Well," he drawled as his hands massaged the bits of her legs he could reach, "I suppose I could help out a bit there. Pretty good with my hands."

Martha wrapped her arms around his waist, then leaned forward, kissing the skin at his shoulder while she stroked his inner thighs.

"Of course, you're quite good with your hands too," he stammered before turning his head and body to kiss her. As their tongues tangled, the water in the tub rocked and swayed, moved by bodies shifting and straining to extend their range of motion in such a confined space.

"Bedroom," she panted, and they kissed while they lifted themselves from the tub. John took a large towel from the rack and wrapped it around their slippery bodies. Martha's arms circled his neck, while his hands sank into the plush cotton curved over her bottom.

_We're not exactly moving in the direction of the bedroom_, she noted.

_We're not really drying off either, but I'm not complaining_, he responded, then groaned as Martha sucked on his tongue.

_I don't want to sleep in a damp bed,_ Martha thought, then gently pulled away from him. They dried each other quickly before heading to the bedroom, where they sampled and tasted and lingered over each other long into the night.

###

In the morning they shared a shower, then prepared and devoured breakfast before heading to the Torchwood offices. Martha spent her morning carefully answering Sarah Jane's questions, and John spent his working with Ianto to set the containment strategy for the village. The mood was strange, everyone trying to shift gears from the emergency footing they'd been operating under to the kind of thinking that went into long-range planning. Jack and Jake strolled in shortly before lunch, claiming a bit of "late-night reconnaissance" as the reason for their late arrival. Ianto shot John a knowing glance, and John's mind wandered back to his own recent nocturnal activity.

Martha, Tish, and Sarah Jane went out for lunch around noon, then the two sisters returned to finish preparations. Martha found in Tosh an able lab assistant, and they spent the afternoon mixing small batches of the accelerator and the inhibitor, as well as preparing the testing solutions and equipment she would need once they'd arrived at the site. Martha was reluctant to create too much of either the accelerator or the inhibitor until she had a better understanding of the actual level of exposure, but had requested enough of the supplies for both to cover the entire village population.

John found her shortly after six o'clock. Ianto was finishing the preparations and had suggested he get Martha so that she could eat supper and get some rest. They were scheduled to leave for the village at ten the next morning, and Ianto could tell from John's increasingly sluggish behavior that they'd likely gotten little sleep the night before. Martha was more or less ready to leave, and she stopped off at Tish's workstation, where her sister was giving last-minute instruction to the young woman who'd be monitoring activity in London while they were away. Martha and John bid Tish their goodbyes, then headed back to John's flat.

Martha called her mother while John made a great deal of noise in the kitchen.

"What's that racket?" Francine asked after the sound of a skillet hitting the floor rang through the flat.

"I think he dropped a pan," Martha giggled. "He's cooking dinner for me."

"Sounds like you might want to order in, dear, just to be safe."

"Oh, mum," Martha sighed. "I think he's just nervous is all."

"Hmph. Well, it's always a good to know where the local takeaways are," Francine advised, "although I suppose you won't be needing them for a while. When do you and your sister leave for that village?"

"Tomorrow at 10. Why don't I meet you at that café near your office at 8:30? We could have a quick cuppa before I go."

"Sounds lovely." Martha could tell that her mother was pleased by the gesture, and she was glad to make the arrangements with her. After another clatter of pans followed by a short burst of cursing, Martha said her goodbyes and I love yous before hanging up the phone.

"Is everything alright in there?"

John stuck his head out the kitchen door. "Oh yes, just fine. Game hens—a bit slippery." He grimaced, then grinned, and Martha shook her head and took a drink from the wine glass she'd put on the coffee table. The blue book was next to it—John had suggested she dip in and read around a bit—and she took it and her glass to the leather chair by the window.

The book was thick, but had only eleven pages, each page an intricate combination of origami folds, hidden doors and panels, and audio and visual additions. One of the first things she'd learned from John was that the Doctor changed his body when he was about to die, and John had drawn them all, one each for ten of the eleven pages. As she turned the pages, the faces looked out at her, some inviting, some off-putting, all enigmatic and as different as she knew each set of recorded experiences was. With each new face came a new set of possibilities, new companions, and new adventures. Sometimes she heard John's voice or a song as she pulled a tab or opened a door; he'd embedded chips in the book like the ones in greeting cards. There were no photographs; this was a book of memory, not an archive. Everything in this book he'd created for this book, made to tell this story. Martha was struck over and over and over again at this other self of John's, so fantastically alien, so sadly human.

She knew that the other Martha's story was in this book, as was Rose's, and maybe even a bit of John's, but she refrained from digging into those for the moment. She was interested in the page without a picture, the one he'd hurried over before dashing into the kitchen. She'd only seen two words on the page, and when she'd uttered them, his face had gone pale, and she could see him struggling with a lump in his throat. She took a sip of the wine and turned to the pages she sought.

Martha was so engrossed in her reading that she didn't notice him peeking out the door. He knew what she'd gone to the book to find, and while he hadn't wanted to talk about this quite yet, he was glad of it. He tried to let the cooking take his mind from what she might be thinking.

In the book, the Time War happens on two unremarkable pages. They are fixed, a fact in a book of flux, and the details are spartan and bare. She tried to fill in the blanks herself, but his words gave her no space to maneuver, no option to play with possibility. It was a solid mass of immovable information. She looked back at the face that had gone into war; the Doctor seemed handsome, dashing, and romantic. But war and romance, while they work well in imaginings, don't do so well in reality, and when she closed the book she was surprised that her eyes felt so empty, every tear having rolled down her cheeks as she'd read and reread the sparse text on the page. He'd done what she couldn't dream, had borne what she couldn't imagine, and nothing that John had done or said before could have prepared her. All the sacrifices he'd made, all the pain he'd felt and caused. It cut her just to read about the war, and she could imagine the ache in that beautiful face as the Doctor realized what had to be done, what he must do, and what the whole of space and time would be like when it was finished. Always the last, resigned to a life of running—to nothing.

She thought back to that conversation they'd had, only a few days ago, a lifetime ago. If these were his memories, this book the sum total of what John carried into his current existence, what would he become?

She took another drink from the glass and looked at the paper again. She hadn't noticed before, but there were more than words on the page. The lamplight cast sidelong shadows, and she could see that the pages were textured throughout. She gently ran her fingers along the paper, trying to sort out the pattern, but found it too complex, too irregular. She went to her backpack and got a piece of paper and a pencil. She placed the paper over the upper left corner of the page, then rubbed the pencil over the paper; a face emerged. Continued rubbing revealed more faces with strange symbols beneath them—names, perhaps, in the language of Gallifrey?—and she knew that these pages were a headstone. She traced their faces with her fingertip. Death, love, and sacrifice, and in the end there's only an etching, a memory, a relief. Martha felt, in what she knew could only be the smallest way, the Doctor's loneliness, and she thought of John abandoned in a parallel world on a beach. He'd been separated from the only thing left of the world he might have claimed as his home, his own, and he'd been left there by the last of his people.

She closed her eyes, a hollow ache filling her chest as she tried to imagine that ocean of pain, sorrow, and loss. It was too big—she couldn't contain it—and she thought her heart might break from trying, but she wanted to understand. She was startled when she felt his hands taking the book from hers, then sad when he sat on the floor next to the chair and placed his head on her lap. She stroked his hair gently, and though he didn't make a sound, she felt his tears dampening her jeans.

_I'm sorry_

_What for? You didn't kill them, you didn't end it, you didn't leave-_

_No,_ she interrupted. _I'm sorry for suggesting that you didn't share his feelings. You carry the memories of everything he's done, and you can't turn those memories over without feeling the weight of them. I was insensitive. I'm sorry._

She could feel him shielding his mind, and though her natural impulse was to be hurt by the exclusion, she knew that he needed to be able to think privately.

"He only has memories too," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "After the war he changed again—couldn't look at the same face—and the memories were so hard to bear."

Martha continued to stroke his hair while she took another sip of the wine, the rich liquid bracing her. John looked up as she leaned to replace the glass on the table. "May I?"

She handed the glass to him, and he emptied it in one long draught before rising. He motioned for her to stand, then replaced her in the chair before gently pulling her to sit on his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder, and as he stroked her hair, he showed her what was on his mind.

_She stepped out a door onto a beach, cold damp wind whipping around her. Jackie was there, as was Rose, the Doctor, and a woman she'd never seen, but knew was named Donna. Hands in trouser pockets, she strolled, inhaling the breeze and feeling the bliss of being and living._

_His words surprised her, the Doctor's voice biting out "genocide," and she was hurt that he couldn't understand why she'd done it, until it became clear that she was meant to stay, to stay and be with Rose, to be for Rose what the Doctor could never be. She thought "I can do this. I can be this. I can love her and have her." She whispered in Rose's ear, she kissed Rose's lips, and she felt Rose running toward the Doctor as the wind groaned._

Martha blinked as she came out of his memory, then pulled back to survey his face. His eyes were closed tightly, and she kissed each eyelid in turn before returning her head to his shoulder.

"They left me, Martha. They both did. They just left me there. He was so angry and I didn't understand. And she didn't want me. None of them wanted me." He was silent for a moment, his mind again shielded. She could sense his hesitation as he moved his arms, vacillating between wrapping them around her and resting them on the arms of the chair. He finally placed his right hand at her waist while resting the left on the smooth leather. "I understand about Rose—that's long done—but the Doctor and Donna, they left me. Why didn't they want me?"

Martha wasn't sure what all of the words meant, and she wasn't certain who Donna was, but she knew enough of the story to piece things together. She put her arms around him and held him close.

"I don't know about Donna—you've never told me about her—" she began slowly, as though she were still making up her mind to speak the words, "but I think that maybe the Doctor had been the last for so long that he didn't know what to do with the first."

John closed his eyes and nodded before burying his face in her shoulder as he held her tight. His grief, heavy at first, grew lighter and softer as Martha's words dissipated, and he felt the relief of having someone give name to your private sorrow. When he'd quieted, he sniffed a bit, then settled back in the chair while he studied Martha's face.

"I felt you." His voice was soft, but strong and clear. "In the kitchen—I could feel you trying to connect to what he and I felt." He smiled at the confused look on her face, then gently brushed her hair behind her ear. "You were projecting again. We're going to have to figure out what that's all about."

She closed her eyes as his fingers traced the curve of her jaw before lightly stroking her lips. This was new, this idea that she could share an emotion from across the room, the thought of a scent from the opposite end of town, and she concentrated on sending him the smallest hint of her desire to fold him in her arms and love him.

"I feel you," he exhaled, overwhelmed by the wave of her untrained embrace.

"I know you," she replied, and he grinned wild and wide as he crushed his lips to hers.

The sound of the oven timer broke the moment, and they reluctantly rose to share the meal John had prepared. Before retiring to the bedroom, Martha had scribbled something on the wall, then joined him in bed, where she made love to him, celebrating the newness that was him, something no universe had seen, someone dear and special to her for being capable of embracing that change. After, as she relaxed, he returned to the kitchen and quickly washed up the dinner things. On his way back to the bedroom, his eyes fell on the book.

He'd intended for the book to tell her everything about him, but now he wondered if it said anything about him at all. The book told the Doctor's story, and those memories John bore carried trace amounts of emotional attachment and physical knowledge. This new nervous system stretching through his body responded to Martha's touch, his olfactory system to Martha's smell, his tongue to the taste of her kisses. The body, the beautiful, flawed, fragile body knew things that the mind didn't; the Doctor had gone through many bodies, and perhaps had forgot the ways in which his body had to draw new connections to the memories in his mind.

He returned the book to the safe, then turned out the lights in the flat after adding his own note to the wall. Martha was dozing in bed, and he noted with no small pleasure that she'd opted for another of his flannel pajama shirts. Her arms embraced his pillow and he indulged in the pleasure of watching the moonlight shimmer on her skin.

He marveled at her calm, at the way she'd handled everything thrown at her and still kept going. That resolve was nothing new—he remembered the other Martha's capability and resolve too—but time and experience had made this Martha, his Martha, who she was, and he loved her for it all, even the dark spots he suspected were in the story of her research. He knew that life was messy—he had nearly 1000 years worth of memories to reinforce that knowledge—and he knew that Martha's choices emanated from a heart and soul that desired only good.

Her words echoed in his mind—"the first"—such a change from that voice always whispering "the last" to him. Gallifrey was gone, the Doctor was gone, Rose was gone, and Donna—some things still were too raw—but he was here and something _new_. He hadn't dared to think of himself as new, not since that day on the Crucible, and as he slipped into the bed next to Martha, he whispered his thanks to her for showing him how new he was.

She was eager to trade the pillow for his chest, and he could feel her gentle breathing warm against his skin. He wanted to wake her with kisses and caresses, but he knew there would be time for more loving and knowing and caring in the days and weeks to come. He pulled the bedding around them and kissed her forehead, smiling as she mumbled a sleepy "I know you" into his chest. Content in being known, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

###

In the hallway the faintest outline of the drawings on the wall would be visible to the discerning eye, but only the most gifted with sight would see the conversation developing in the small history they'd begun just days before.

_I'm falling._

_I've fallen._

_I know you._

_We love._


	15. Chapter 15: Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The morning sun warmed his skin, and John smiled sleepily as Martha buried her face against his chest, hoping to ward off the light. He lazily stroked her hip, feeling himself stirring again at the memory of their evening together. It was 7:12 a.m., and for a moment he expected to hear Simon rustling about the flat, making preparations for breakfast and setting up the day's work. He pulled Martha more tightly against his body when he remembered that Simon was gone now.

The sun was blinding, and while she had to meet her mother soon, he wanted Martha to get as much rest as possible—they'd both need it, and he was sad they didn't have a few more days, at least, to hide out and recuperate before the circus that would govern the months ahead began. John gently pulled away from his lover, and walked to the window to draw the curtain closed.

Martha's eyes could remain shut no longer, the sun's light forcing her to wake. The bed was colder, and for a moment she was disoriented. John's presence was becoming more and more familiar to her, and his absence was more jarring than the bright light. As her eyes adjusted, she saw him standing naked before the window, his body silhouetted by the morning sun. A grin played along her lips, until she realized that he wasn't moving, his form almost rigid, his hands gripping the sides of the windowsill. She rose to join him, gently placing her hand at the small of his back so as not to surprise him out of his thought.

He placed his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close; Martha could hear his heart pounding in his chest. As she looked out over the city, hers began to match his rhythm.  
"Blimey," she gasped, "what—how—where? What's happened?"

His response was slow and measured, a stark contrast to the increasing pace of his heartbeat. "I'm not entirely sure," he replied, holding onto as well as holding her, "but I believe we're in the fifty-first century."


End file.
